


The Choice

by Miriza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "Minor" Mutilation (no genitals), Alternate Universe - Slavery, Cages, Corsetry, Dark, Doctor John Watson, Father-Son Relationship, Forced Feminization, Humiliation, John Watson is a nice person for slaves, M/M, Master/Slave, MedievalTorture, Moriarty is Creepy As Usual, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Non-Consensual, Object Insertion, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sherlock´s father could be a better person, Slave!Sherlock, Subordination, TagsInProgress, Torture, hopefully happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriza/pseuds/Miriza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock is given to a slavery for a criminal mastermind James Moriarty to cover his father´s gambling debts. James Moriarty begins his work to break new slave´s will and turn him into a perfect bed slave. There is not a place to escape in a world of inequality, where people are born or sold to slavery by their family members. Until one Mycroft Holmes, an influental factor in British Government, tries to find out the truth about what has really happened to his oddly disappeared younger brother. Meanwhile doctor John Watson returns from the War and gets a job as a doctor for slaves of the upper class people. He cannot forget one abused, but not yet broken slave in mr Moriarty´s house, and wants to find a way to help him or at least to meet him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Their game was on.

It was not a game of noisy words or shouts. The men around the heavy antic oak table watched silently as the two gamblers who remained tried to beat each other. Only short words were uttered, as they investigated their final cards, trying to decide what would be the best move to take next. No-one paid any attention to the blond male slave behind the men, hardly eighteen years old, but he was still alert and ready to fill their glasses or any other wishes these men might demand of him. The brand on his forehead was clearly visible. The sign of ownership. His right: to be used. An old-fashioned bulb lit the smoke-filled room dimly.

"Do you call, Mr. Holmes?" grunted the other gambler; a man in his forties, though his hair was already greying, to match his grey eyes. Hard and calculating, the eyes of professional. His face was expressionless, looking still more like a military man than a criminal. A man with muscles, used to giving and taking orders.

"Wait. Three." The other man said finally. The cards were changed and the man, known as Mr. Holmes, had to make an effort to keep his face expressionless. He was almost a professional himself, but this night had been hard and so much was at stake. He was determined to win, but was so close to losing all.

His fortune had already decreased during these years after the War and after his successful business with army supplies and guns had gone down. His new business with the tinned food industry didn´t offer him big money, or what was worse, the thrill which he had been used to in the war time. Still, he could have spent peaceful days with his family and running his business, but it wasn´t enough for his restless mind. Bored and frustrated, he let his war-time business companion, Colonel Sebastian Moran, lead him into a gaming club.

The new world of uncertainty and the possibility of winning big money in a short time gave him the excitement he had longed for. It seemed like a paradise to Richard Holmes for a while, until his downfall had begun. He lost more than he could afford, but he returned over and over again. His luck could have turned better anytime. He had no other options.

He had lost considerable sums of money, more than he could afford. Now he was gambling his last valuable possession, his family mansion, as his last attempt to improve his situation, to pay at least some of his debts and get back his lost property and self-respect.

On the other hand, if he lost now, then it would be the end of his wealthy life style, his family´s good name and property, and even his marriage, which he couldn´t let it happen.

He was ready to do anything to prevent it.

It was time to reveal his cards for all to see.

He laid his cards slowly on the table: three, four, five, six and seven of hearts. Straight flush.

If this was not the winning hand, then what would be? There was only one better hand than his, but statistically, the chances that his opponent had it were minimal. This couldn´t have gone better. This was the turning point for his luck. This had to be the taste of victory!

"Colonel Moran. Your turn." He could not lose, not this time. His most valuable family property, his family mansion, was safe. His marriage was safe. His life would be worth living again. Soon, very soon, everything would be like before, or even better. He would stop his gambling and concentrate on more serious business again.

"With pleasure," the Colonel answered, starting to reveal his own cards slowly. When they lay side by side with Richard Holmes´s cards, his victorious mood had vanished. Instead, he felt a knot in his stomach, like someone had just punched him in his solar plexus and he couldn´t get enough air. He still didn´t let any signs of his inner turmoil show.

This wasn´t real.

Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. The royal flush against Mr. Holmes´s straight flush.

This had to be a bad dream. The likelihood that these two hands would be against each other was almost nonexistent.

What an unexpected turn of events. Richard Holmes suppressed his urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

The royal flush.

Holy fuck.

"It seems as though it is time for you to start looking for a new place to live, Mr. Holmes," his former business partner said wryly. "Like some cozy little place a family of four could live in. Though not exactly a mansion."

Mr. Richard Holmes's final game had ended.

"Unless… Unless we can reach an agreement. There is always a choice."

When Richard Holmes drove home later that night, the conversation he had had with his gambling partner still echoed in his ears.

"Your son, Mr. Holmes, is key to our problem," Colonel Moran said to his former business partner, forming perfectly round blue smoke circles with his expensive Cuban cigar.

"I have two sons, in fact. Please, would you explain further?"

"I will. My friend, a wealthy, influential gentleman, is looking for a suitable young man to be his new partner. He isn´t interested in a traditional marriage with a woman. He's looking for a man with a proper background and look. His former partner died unexpectedly after a short sickness. I understand that your younger son would be a suitable candidate."

Mr. Richard Holmes frowned. He wasn´t sure if he was pleased with the direction that their conversation was turning. 

Colonel Moran took a sip from his golden drink before he continued. The ice cubes made a little noise against a glass as he put the glass back on the table.

"You are a smart man, Mr. Holmes. I know you as a business associate and a gambler, and I have learnt to respect you. Don´t insult me by pretending that this is too difficult for you to comprehend. I am ready to forget my right to your property, even help you with your, eh, current financial problems, if you accept my offer. My friend understands that your younger son is the more preferable young man for his purpose. My friend is an influential man and ready to remember those who have helped him. His friendship would help you with your little financial problems. He is also a very tactful person, keeping a low profile with his actions. But I can assure you, you won´t want him as your enemy. That's why he has gained such success and his reputation remains illustrious to the public. Your wife wouldn´t know anything. So, what's your answer?"

Colonel Moran didn´t even try to hide his admiration of his friend. 

"Your… ehhr… friend could well purchase a slave boy for his purposes. Why choose a free boy from a well-known family like mine? It would be so much more complicated. And my son is surely not the easiest choice."

"Exactly. He loves a good challenge. He wants to do things the hard way. It gives him so much more."

Mr. Holmes stared at his cards as if they could guide him in the right direction: to choose between his younger son or his home. Losing his estate would mean the end of his current life. It was his main property. Besides, he couldn´t hide his gambling anymore from his wife any longer. She wouldn´t forgive him. He wouldn´t allow himself to lose it, at any cost.

Moran´s suggestion was unusual, but not unheard of. It was not illegal in their society.

The problem was, his wife was very keen on their younger son. He had always been her favorite and under her special protection, despite his problematic personality and the constant troubles he caused. His younger son was a time bomb, waiting for any excuse to explode.

The choice was frighteningly easy to make. The older Holmes only had to invent a believable story for his wife about why her younger son would disappear suddenly. Of course he couldn´t tell her that he had lost him in a poker game.

He had already thought it over, when his driver drove them to the wide front drive of the Holmes mansion.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An elaborate melody of a violin echoed from behind the closed door of his son´s room. His son being awake, disturbing his family with his playing at such late hours of the night, didn´t surprise Mr. Holmes. He didn´t care for music, considering it a useless activity. He waited a second before he pushed the door open, stepping in without bothering to knock first.

His son´s silhouette stood out against the window, his back to the dark room, his tall, lanky body expressing his concentration on the music. He didn´t turn to look at his father, although he was aware of his presence. His father turned the lights on. He should have finished playing to show his respect for his father, such was the etiquette expected, but he seldom cared for such formalities. His father frowned, suppressing his irritation towards his unruly son. Not now, when he had more important things to talk about with his son. His son had always been like that, difficult to handle even at his best, impossible most of the time.

The room looked a mess. Clothes lay all over the floor; the bed was, naturally, unmade; several experiments were occurring in the self-made laboratory on his table; unfinished experiments all over, in petri dishes growing cultures, who looked more molds than anything else, in breakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, desiccators and volumetric flasks among other laboratory glassware, suspect powders waiting for further tests or colorful liquids spreading an unhealthy smell into the air.

He was most likely creating a new disease, thought Richard, and using us as his lab rats.

He was forbidden from experimenting inside the house after the explosion and subsequent fire in the kitchen. Their kitchen slave had gone hysterical after the incident, refusing to return to her work, and the older Holmes had to call a doctor for her. Even that event didn´t stop him from building a new laboratory in his own room, and there it was still.

An embarrassing thought occurred to him: This agreement would offer a neat solution for what he should do with his troublesome offspring. To name just one example of his appalling behaviour: that catastrophic dinner, when he had invited his older son´s headmaster and some other important authorities, and his mouthy eight year old son revealed how the headmaster´s wife had cheated on her husband with Mycroft´s gymnastics teacher… Richard had tried to save the evening by telling them that the boy had a very rare variation of Tourette's syndrome, and that they should simply ignore him. He had ordered his son to his room and locked him there for the rest of that night, letting him out only the next afternoon. His older son had had a pensive look on his face, but he stayed silent.

His son´s play turned nervous, almost hostile, when he sensed that his father had stepped into his room. He should have knocked... definitely, he should have. He wasn´t a child any more, he had his right to privacy...

His father registered the change in the music, but dismissed it with a shrug.

"Sherlock, would you stop that noise? I have much to discuss with you."

No reaction. His father frowned. His son had no right to pretend that he didn´t notice his father. He came closer to his son, grabbed the violin and pushed it forcefully aside. The only thing which stopped him from smashing the hated instrument against a wall here and now was that it was his wife´s gift to his son, and it had been very expensive. Richard Holmes had always respected money.

His son didn´t respect anything at all. A son like that didn´t deserve his father.

"Could you pay some attention to me, son?" He repeated, irritated, as his son ignored him completely. This stubborn boy had always brought out the worst in him, though he had tried to hide it for the sake of his wife, so as to avoid an argument.

"Let go of my violin, father," his son hissed. He didn´t want to listen to his father. He just needed to be by himself, in his own thoughts. They stared at each other coldly.

"You don´t seem to have brought home any profits tonight, father."

"Now, listen carefully, son. Do you care for your mother?"

The question surprised him. "Of course, father. You know that."

"And you don´t want to upset her, at any cost?"

"No, I don´t." The younger man answered curtly, not loosening his hold on his precious instrument.

His father frowned at the lack of respect in his son´s answer. He had never given him any. But soon, very soon, he wouldn´t need to suffer that misfortune ever again. The thought of it made this so much easier.

"Then I want you to be a decent son for once. Listen to me very carefully and do as I tell you; just this once, for your family. You should be grateful, I'm offering you a chance to show your love for your family, for your beloved mother."

His father stood before him and told him about the agreement he had made with this criminal, Colonel Moran. He told him that his future was over now, and what he expected him to do.

"What about my studies, father?" Sherlock had been planning to study chemistry at university.

His father snorted, and told him that he could forget his personal plans. This was the only alternative he had henceforth.

"There is always an alternative!" His son shouted, without realizing he had raised his voice. Another sign of disrespect, but he didn´t care about that at this moment. His father couldn´t do such a thing.

"Don´t start with your usual tantrums. Try to behave. Remember, you can save your mother´s health and home. Her health is not as it used to be. Don´t worry her more than you already have. Your duty as a son is to guarantee the wellbeing of your family, in all the means you have. And to obey your father, of course. You can now do both."

"What if they have wanted Mycroft? Would you agree with them – give him up just like this?"

"You are the one this gentleman is interested in. You should consider yourself honored. "Don´t be difficult. Keep your brother away from this. Mycroft has nothing to do with our contract. You wouldn´t be in this trouble now if you had been more like him. Stop worrying your mother."

"Me? I worried her? How about your gambling problem? If she knew about that, how it would affect her health?" His son asked bitterly, his gaze not leaving his father as he locked the window to prevent any escape attempts. Richard Holmes didn´t expect his son to try anything, not when his mother´s health and well-being depended on his co-operation, but he wanted to be sure.

Sherlock's father didn´t answer. He turned on his heel and left a meaningless name echoing in the air after him: Moriarty. James Moriarty.

"But it is my birthday soon…" His son whispered to the empty room.

Soon, he would be 18. Usually he wouldn´t have cared about such trivialities as birthdays, but after that day, his father couldn´t have sold him. But he wasn´t yet an adult, and the contract had already been signed. Technically, he was already this man´s property, his slave partner. He closed his eyes, trying to pronounce that impossible word, to taste the preposterousness of this mocking term. More a concubine than a real partner, with the rights and social status that real wives had. What a crooked twist in his life...

Of course, Sherlock knew about slaves, like he knew that the solar system existed, but that was all. He hadn´t given a second thought to the institution until now, when he had to.

He had to get out of here. He methodically probed his now secured window. He knew, that it was secured carefully to prevent his escape attempts, but he could easily to break out using acids, which he used in cleaning his laboratory glassware. There was another alternative to this life, as he had told his father, to get out from this room, to run away from the life of a slave. But he couldn´t, if he cared for his mother. He knew that he probably could find a way to leave, but then his mother would suffer. He was strong enough to withstand his fate, to protect her from his father´s weakness. And besides, where could a slave escape to?

This was his last night at his home. He needed to prepare for his future, not the one that had been stolen from him.

He raised his violin gently. He tried to continue the melody he had played earlier, before his father had interrupted him, but instead of that elegant melody, he only managed to get aggressive screeches from his violin. After trying for some time, he gave up, and put his valuable instrument down again on the bed and went to lie by it. He touched his violin like it was alive, a warm and feeling human being, its wood smooth and comforting. He stared at the opposite wall, waiting for dawn and his father's call.

He decided that whatever happened, whatever methods his future owner used on him, he would return them wholly. He wouldn't submit willingly to his new role. Maybe his new owner would like a misbehaving slave.

Most importantly, who was James Moriarty, who wanted a son of a free man as his concubine? He surely didn´t pick Sherlock randomly, he must have had a good reason for it.

Had he spied on him? And if so, why?

The night started to turn from dark velvet to an early daybreak, and eventually the door opened again. This time behind his father came his personal driver, who knew about all his father´s secret trips and business.

"It is time to go."

When his son took his violin from the bed to put it into a violin box and take with him, his father interrupted him.

"Are you going to take it?"

"Yes."

"I don´t believe that you would be allowed to keep it."

Sherlock stiffened. He wouldn´t leave without his violin. It was his most precious possession.

"I will, anyway. I won´t leave without it."

His father considered it for a moment.

"It is an expensive instrument. Slaves are not allowed to own such things."

His son didn´t let go. Mr. Holmes looked at his son tentatively, giving in reluctantly.

"All right then."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The father and son stepped out to meet a warm summer's morning. It was so early that inside the rest of his family were still sleeping: his mother in her private bedroom, his older brother Mycroft, who was making a career in the British Government, so Sherlock was told, an expected visitor in his father´s house.

The early morning promised a beautiful day to come. Sherlock dismissed the greenness of vegetation and the birds´ song. They didn´t exist to him anymore. His father pushed him inside his old Bentley, locked his seat belt and sat next to him, as the driver locked the car doors. Richard Holmes gave a sign to the driver, who started the engine, and the car began its long journey away from Sherlock´s childhood and former future.

They didn´t talk to each other during the whole two-hour drive, from the posh part of city to a completely different kind of area, filled with abandoned factories and warehouses. Richard didn´t like this part of London at all, but Moran had given him this address, and he knew better than to object. There wasn´t really anything to say. His life was in the hands of Colonel Moran´s friend´s good will. If he was happy with their bargain, Richard Holmes would be free from his debts and get a fresh start in life.

The driver opened the door. He wasn´t just a driver, but also Richard Holmes´s personal body guard and right hand man. He had muscles and fighting skills. Richard´s skinny son would not have a chance in a fight against him. Naturally, the driver respected all the members of the family, but his real loyalty was to Richard Holmes´s orders.

Colonel Moran and his four muscular minions were already waited. On Moran's orders, the four circled the new-comers quickly and separated Sherlock from the others, forcing his hands behind his back and handcuffing him. Moran smiled widely when he saw that Richard Holmes had kept his word.

"A new slave cannot walk over like that, not without proper accessories."

Sherlock stared him, keeping his head up proudly, reading the life of the man in front of him. Moran stared back at him, like he was an object. His client – his friend – would be satisfied. When he was happy, then Moran would be. It was a neat working arrangement between them.

"He is a pretty little thing. I can see why Mr. Moriarty is so keen to obtain him. Everything seems to be in order."

This man didn´t talk to him but about him, though he stood before him, so near that he could... and he did. The young man spat in the older one's face. The gesture expressed accurately his thoughts about this Colonel. An army man. No need to waste oxygen to him.

Everybody tensed. Mr. Holmes hurried to give him a clean handkerchief.

"I am so sorry. This is new for him… He is difficult, even at his best."

Moran wiped himself clean slowly.

"Oh dear. He has a temper. Moriarty has work to do with this one. He's lucky that Moriarty gave me strict instructions about how to handle him."

But then his gaze stopped on the black violin case, which had dropped onto the concrete when Sherlock's hands were cuffed.

"He insisted on taking it with him. It is very important to him. More important than humans," Richard explained nervously.

Glee spread over Moran´s face. He had an idea.

"Is that so? Too bad. He cannot keep it. Could you take it out of its box, Richard?"

Richard Holmes hesitated. He knew what Moran was going to do, and for the first time, he felt something close to regret, though the feeling vanished soon.

Sherlock knew also, and paled.

"No! Father!" He shrieked, attempted to come loose from Moran´s minions´ grasp.

"Listen, I can take the instrument with me, Moran, so you don´t need to wonder what to do with it. It isn´t exactly his, not anymore…" Richard tried.

"Take it out of the box! Now!" Richard didn´t dare to object more. He opened the box to take the instrument out, and gave the beautiful violin to Moran.

"It really is a rare item, like its owner." Moran grinned, placed it on the ground and stepped on it. The wood cracked dryly under Moran´s weight.

"You will be as broken, sooner or later, as your precious instrument." He spat the words to Sherlock.

He stepped off and nodded to elder Holmes to collect its remains and put them back in its box.

"Enough of that! Boys, it's time to go."

Somebody bent Sherlock´s head back to make a vein more accessible. Then he felt a sting in his neck. The stinging sensation spread from the injection all over his body. This time they let him go, and he took a wobbling step, his limps heavy and his sight blurred.

"So strong. It burns…" He thought, before the darkness swallowed his mind and he collapsed into the waiting arms of Moran´s men.


	2. Chapter 2

His head ached, his brain too sluggish to function properly, and he felt like nausea was almost on its way. He suppressed the revulsion and instinctively tried to rise up, but an obstacle hit his back and blocked his movement. Stretching himself didn´t work either, as a wire web blocked his way.

He shook his head, struggling to clear his head, to make some sense of where he was and how. The drug had been injected to keep him unconscious during the drive to wherever their destiny might be, but its effect had started to fade by the time they had prepared him for his new status. 

Despite being inexperienced with the common procedure of new slaves´ treatment, he supposed that this would prepare him for meeting his new owner. He was not a typical slave but a free man´s son, sold as an expensive toy for a man who could afford such a rarity for himself. It was kinkiness in its own class, fun like killing protected species- the hint of wrongness in it provided extra enjoyment for the man behind this. 

He had been pushed into a tiny wire cage, like a chicken in its torturously small battery coop, where he was unable to lie down or stand straight. A restricted place for a man of his size – for a man of any size - to spend for any prolonged period of time. His only options were to crouch, doglike, or try to get some rest by bringing his knees almost up to his jaw. There wasn´t much space to do anything else. His every attempt to move made the cage swing above the floor, where a strong cable connected it to the roof. The feel of steel wire was pressing into his bare skin, and suddenly he became aware that his clothes had been changed: instead of his fitted black jeans and expensive white shirt, he wore a sleeveless grey t-shirt and thin cotton shorts. He didn´t have anything else to protect him against the thin metal wires, which pressed against his delicate skin, leaving their marks. The room around him was bare, cold and dull-colored, with no other furniture there than his cage. The closed door reminded him that there was still an outside world somewhere behind it. 

It was all meant to make him aware that he shouldn´t have any grand illusions of status in the hierarchy of the new household, despite the fact that he was to become the partner for the master of the house. He was on the bottom, not even allowed a proper space to get some real rest or to stand, straight or crooked. So tiny a space… Concentrate, he ordered himself firmly. They’re just trying to scare you, to make you more amenable to your fate. You are above whatever they do to you. After all, this is just the start, a welcome. 

He started to realize that it was possible he would spend a considerably long time in this little cage, with no other shelter than his sparse clothing and his own skin. 

When there was nothing else to do, he fell into a restless sleep, which was interrupted abruptly when someone harshly shook the cage until he opened his eyes. A bold man with colorless eyes had a hold on his cage, letting go when he saw Sherlock was awake, holding his gaze silently.

“Is it dinner time?” Sherlock asked mockingly, curious about the mark of the slave tattooed on the man´s forehead. This unknown man was a slave, too, and still he came to taunt a new slave. So much for solidarity amongst the ones at the bottom of the hierarchy.

“I would consume you, sweetie.” The voice sounded as toneless as the whole man was featureless. “The beauty of this cage is how practical it is. You are neatly inside, and I could, for example, drown you in it. Keep it there until you aren´t sure if you are still alive or already drowned. Or…” The man mused over the many possibilities one tiny cage filled with a human being offered. “Or I could electrify your cage. How many jolts could you take before you screamed?… Screamed like a girl… How much would it need to roast you alive? How would you look if your pretty white skin was red and burnt?”

“Are you wasting my time or do you have something important to say?” Sherlock sounded self-confident, although he didn´t feel like it. He hoped to find out if the man was under an order to scare him, or if he had come to taunt him for his own fun. “You just talk.” 

“Don´t be so sure about it, free boy. Oh, but you’re not so free anymore.” The man shook his cage fiercely again, making him hit against the wires. He laughed at his prisoner. He had a dagger with him, its blade thin enough that he could get it between the metal wires. He struck the blade forcefully into Sherlock´s hand, pinning the hand against the metal web, turning it in the wound as he continued. “What a lovely girl we have this time… Do you wait for your master eagerly, sweetie? You’re counting on him to protect you, aren´t you, honey? Don´t be so sure about that. He will love to play with you, I can tell you that much. I can hear your heart beating from excitement. Oh, do you shiver in anticipation?” The man blabbered on with this nonsense, poking him with his knife everywhere he could reach. He left bleeding wounds on Sherlock’s skin, the young man unable to defend himself. 

A girl? What was this man talking about?

He continued until Sherlock was sure he couldn´t take it any longer, that he would say something which he would regret if he continued. Eventually the man left, satisfied. To Sherlock, being alone again felt like bliss.

The dull ache of his wounds faded, leaving him thirsty, his stomach empty. But how could he fulfill its demands? Should he shout for someone to come? Likely no-one would come if he did. It probably wouldn´t do him any good. He had to wait.

And he did.

Nothing new happened for a time, though his hunger began to be more difficult to ignore.

Everything was possible, even the notion that there had been a mistake and they had forgotten him, or that this Moriarty had changed his mind and decided to let him rot in his prison. The door stayed closed. 

The door stayed closed. Nothing changed. Only the hunger, and yes, he dreamt about water, running water and waterfalls. Then he woke, but the door still didn´t open. Not yet.

Until, finally, the door of his forgotten room fell open. Three men stepped in, slave brands on their foreheads. They wore black loose trousers and black t-shirts. Slaves came to prepare him to meet his master. Interesting. James Moriarty uses his old slaves to prepare a new one.

They told him to be still, that he needed to be cleaned. It was wash time then, but wouldn´t they help him out of the cage first? One of them aimed the hose at him. There had to be a faucet near, in the corridor? He liked to be clean, but please, not like that… No, he had to get out… But then the man sprayed the hose and water hit him in a blast. He was sprayed everywhere until he was wet and shivering from the cold water, yet he was still thirsty.  
He was dragged out of the cage, though they didn’t need to have done that. He was more than eager to get out from the prison. His clothes were taken from him and he was toweled dry, given new clothes, and at last a glass of water. He wouldn´t have believed a week ago that he would be so thankful for a glass of water, but he was. And it was pathetic. How quickly they had done this to him, Sherlock Holmes, who had been so proud of his stoic self-control. 

They told him, to their amusement, that he was going to meet his husband, the man who bought him, mysterious Mr. Moriarty.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

This new room did not differentiate from the first one. So far, he had only been allowed to see featureless, grey rooms, full of nothingness. 

He was forced onto his knees, a firm grip on his hair to keep his head up. A thin leather strip tied his wrists together behind his back. This time, he was only allowed to wear shorts; his torso was bare for his master´s eyes to appraise him. They told him to behave, not to upset or insult his master if he didn´t want any troubles. In his mind he already was, the memory of chill water remaining on his still-damp skin, in his bones, his hunger eating away at him inside.  
He just didn´t understand what they meant about behaving in his situation. They promptly explained- he had to be polite, not to turn his eyes away from his master´s face. He had to pay full attention to the man who owned him, to listen to his words and agree with all he said, not to upset him.

He was meant to meet his new husband… How comic. He was being treated like a beast or an animal. A trophy, perhaps?

He had hoped that his future owner – he refused to think of him as his husband, as he probably should - would be a decent man, against all the odds. A man with a righteous mind, and maybe even with compassion, although he understood that if he had been such a character, he wouldn´t treat his so-called wife like this. He wouldn´t treat people like possessions. At the very least, he wouldn´t accquire his alleged bride through a gambling debt. He wouldn´t get his enjoyment from humiliating and breaking people.

“So, what have we got here! Such a lovely sight!” The man´s accent could be clearly heard in the silence of the room. When he saw him, he observed him, and yet how little it revealed, how unreadable this man was… His instincts told him to stay away, but the hands of the trusted house slaves – the same hands which had stripped him, washed him in that humiliating way – didn´t even let him turn his head. This surprising little man in his ridiculous, expensive tailored suit came as near enough to touch him, his mouth full of sharp, whitened teeth. And a realization struck the young man that there was no hope behind these dead eyes, just a valley of death, guarded by a demon of lies.

Now the man stood, his cold gaze evaluated him. He didn´t flinch under the scrutiny.  
“Perfect… A virgin, I see, inexperienced. He needs proper training for his future duties. We´ll start with him at once, to get the desired results. He has so much to learn! So exciting! It always is with a new one.” The little man petted his cheek. 

“You have stalked me. Why?” Sherlock needed to know. That was his most fundamental question. Why did this man choose him?

“Clever boy! Yes, I have observed you already, for some time. Oh, who wouldn´t? I knew that our paths would cross one day. I have waited for some time already to get my chance. The day has finally come, but it is just the beginning of our shared story. I have a lot of work to do with you before you are ready for me. The day will come when you confess, ‘You are everything to me. I owe you all.’ You don´t believe it now, my dear, but that day will come. Then your body and soul will be mine, completely, and your reckless mind will have only one problem to solve- how to fulfill my wishes.”

Sherlock´s expression turned from curious to incredulous, and then finally to loathing, whilst the man in front of him laughed, softly but humorlessly. But Sherlock was sure that there was more, that something had been unsaid.  
“I won´t. I am not like the others.” There had been other young men before him, he wasn´t the first one.

“Oh, yesss, you will,” He hissed. “They all did, finally, when I was done with them. You are not an exception. You will adjust.” The man stroke his curls, then gently petted his cheek with his thumb, again, and Sherlock flinched as though the touch burnt him. In some sense, it did. The unwanted touch was the first of so many he would receive. He yanked his head away, squirming in the grip, but the hand in his hair dragged his head backwards with considerable force, arching his back. 

“Be still!” The command came from behind him. The man who had spoken immediately apologized to Moriarty, whose good mood had only increased with this tiny act of disobedience.

“Of course, he needs the brand!” He spoke to the other men. “Ready?” 

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock knew the man from his voice; he was the featureless figure who had come to taunt him when he was in his cage. Now he gave something to Moriarty, and Sherlock tried instinctively to move back, away from this object. Its surface was so hot that it glowed red. It was so close to him now that he could feel its heat. Wriggling was all he managed to do, he had to break the hold… He had to... Moriarty kept the brand near his skin, enjoying the distress he was so unable to hide, before he thrust the branding iron to his chest. It hissed against him, leaving the initials J. M. burning on his skin. He could smell his skin burning, but he managed not to scream aloud. A tiny victory- his new owner didn´t get that joy from him. Not yet, not here.

Moriarty marked a new slave with his initials above his heart. Not a common place for a slave mark, where it wasn´t visible if a slave wore a shirt, but Moriarty likely thought that he didn´t need a mark on his forehead. His status would be clear to all, and he probably wouldn´t leave Moriarty´s house.

Nowadays, a slave mark was tattooed on slave´s skin. True, that was painful too, but it was nothing compared to the ancient method of burning a mark onto the skin that Moriarty used on him.

Sherlock had no idea how much pain this barbarous act would cause before the hot iron touched his skin. He decided at this moment that he would never call this cruel, pitiful little man his husband.

“By the way, these men, who are going to take care of you when I am busy with my business,” Moriarty nodded towards his underlings around Sherlock, the featureless one and the two who kept him in his place, “are slaves too, as you have surely already noticed. But don´t expect them to show any compassion towards you, or to help you. They were born into slavery and have had thorough training to serve owners like me. What they hate most are arrogant, spoiled rich kids like you, born in freedom, who’ve had everything. What they’ve never had. Whose fathers are slave-owners themselves. Now they have you in their hands. They can’t wait for their turn to teach you a lesson, to pay you back. They are the most capable trainers I can find for you. I trust them enough to leave you in their hands. And he is in charge.” Moriarty pointed the featureless man, who had given the branding iron to his owner.

Moriarty checked his mobile. “I am sorry, but I have to leave you. Work, work, always work! Bye bye, Sherlie!”

When the door of the room closed after Mr Moriarty, the man stepped in his place and introduced himself to Sherlock: “Hello. We have already met. If you want to know my name, you can call me Chameleon. Master has ordered me personally to take care your familiarization. He is used to give his new toys for a trusty person. I am helping him to look after you, softening you a bit for him. He is a busy man and doesn´t have time for everything.”

The guy was not much older than Sherlock. Moriarty´s initials were clearly visible on his forehead. Tattooed, not burnt like on him. Burning the mark on the skin was clearly a method, which was used for the chosen ones. 

The guy crouched a bit, whispering to Sherlock´s ear: “The best part of the job is, that I enjoy an every second of it.” His breathing smelt aniseed as if he had swallowed disinfectant. Moriarty´s underlings were as creepy as the man himself. 

“You smell. Go further.” Sherlock told him. 

“What did you say, little princess? Say it again!”

“You heard me well." 

“Colonel Moran was right about you. You are looking for troubles, sweetie.” 

When Moriarty´s underlings surrounded Sherlock, dragging him to stand and Chameleon pushed his finger onto Sherlock´s fresh burn wound, causing him to yelp and watering his eyes, Sherlock started his own work. He started to strengthen himself by building a mental wall around his still beating, bloody, capable heart, hardening it against what was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I am sorry for my slow dating schedule. After all I am writing in a language, which is not my mother language, so I have extra work to do to process my text.  
> Some warnings: this chapter continues graphic torture scenes as well as some other trigger details. So please read this cautiously. Because I am not an expert with torture methods and their effects, so it may be, that all details are not correct. But this is fanfiction, after all, so I think, that it can be forgiven.
> 
> I want especially thank my beta Cryptic Nymph.

_When the slave loses himself, he is on his way towards perfection. Losing himself is the way to perfection. In the darkness your only direction is into yourself and your only company your abashed thoughts, and when you finally step out from darkness into daylight again you find yourself as lost as if you were still in the darkness of rebirth. And you stand in the bright daylight, blinking, the light too much for your eyes, not adjusted to it. Uncertainty, when you don´t know where to go, what to think, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Until you realise the need for instructions, the want of hearing your master´s guidance.  
_

_The greatest beauty of this process is to see how a restless, rebellious, homeless mind finds its peace, when it gives itself up and starts to follow its master´s firm and infallible instructions without hesitation._

_From the philosophical writings of slavery: The complete, merciful freedom in slavery._

The shock prod touched bare skin again, this time amongst dark pubic hair- yes, almost hitting there, but not quite. Mr Moriarty had strictly forbidden them from ruining his fun prematurely by permanently mutilating his new boy too early. They had learnt not to question their master´s wishes, so they carefully avoided his face or genitals. 

But other parts of the slave´s body still offered many delicious possibilities to get his attention. Sherlock distanced himself first by rationalizing that this might be a suitable opportunity to collect data about how electric shocks affected in different parts of human body, anticipating that he would have a chance to use this information later in his life. A back was a wide and surprisingly tender area, but not very imaginative. Different spots of his stomach; in turn both of armpits- when he was still recovering from the last jolt to his right armpit, the prod hit the left one out of the blue. The inner part of his long thighs made him wince; the soles of feet were exceptionally sensitive. It was hard to decide which part was most responsive, if he had to pick just one. He hardly had time to gather himself to collect and store data before the next jolt shocked his nerve system. His body stiffened after every new touch, his muscles started to cramp; until he couldn´t do anything but scream. The screaming had already been building inside him for some time, although he had managed to control it till now. His hands and legs tightly spread like strings, his naked body fastened in a shape of an x, the ghostly white human surface exposed for them to write slavery´s rules on him, so perfectly exposed for them- what joy.

“Look, what a funny face he makes!” somebody noticed.

He was not sure if this was meant to be educational, but at least he had discovered one thing: that he hated electricity.

Several touches with the vicious prod made his body tremble, his pulse quicken. His paralyzed mind expected the next one, which was coming as surely as night followed even the brightest day. He was unable to keep his dismissive facade up as he had planned after so many shocks, which had dramatically reduced his skill to ignore the pain.

When the jolt had hit him in his intimate area, when he had started his primal scream, he didn´t know how to stop, how to gather his dignity any more.  
He panted between shocks, hoping it would be over, hoping they would tell him what to do to make it stop once and for all.

The shock made his naked body stiffen and he screamed, although he hadn´t planned to do so.

But things didn´t always go as they had planned.

He heard Chameleon´s orders, “Say, ‘thank you, sir.’” When he didn´t answer, the jolt hit him in an especially nasty place, the nape of his neck, in a wicked mimic of a lover´s kiss. His body stiffened in agony, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, his mouth barely open. But no voice came out, and it was all too much for him to stand bravely- when the contact broke, he collapsed, the ties around his wrists the only thing preventing him from crumple. It was all too much and he hated himself because of it.

“Sir, thank you, sir, thank you,” he babbled senselessly. At this point, he would have said anything that would make them stop and let him be. Of course, that was what they wanted to achieve, to drop his barriers and make him pliant. He heard laughter around him and someone slapped him on the back of his head.

“That´s the good boy I like,” Chameleon taunted.

He still waited for a new jolt to hit him, unable to prepare himself any longer, ready to scream. It didn´t come. He couldn´t even feel relieved, when he hung there naked and helpless like a new-born baby, humiliated and pliant. His strength was drained from him, his heart raced, his weak fingers snaking around his restraints. He listened blindly to the litany which was now recited monotonously, praising the blessings of being a slave, the freedom to give up thinking, making decisions and being human.

\------------------------------------------

His new residence smelled damp. It was a more questionable smell than what came from his uncompleted experiment in his old laboratory. After the torture session, he was locked in this cold basement cell and he had now been there... for some time now. He lay on a stinking, thin mattress that was his bed, face to a stone wall, his body shivering and trying to produce some warmth against the chilliness of the air in this basement prison.

Then he got his dinner.

First, he had tried to get as close to the cell door as possible. But Chameleon showed him his prod, reminding him what kind of power he carried over him and how ready he was to use it. Then he ordered him back against a wall, and he went, stayed there until his guard was gone, leaving a plate for the prisoner.

He played with his pink plastic spoon in the scoopful of grey mass, which didn´t taste of anything other than from cheap oil. It was, in one word, awful, and it wasn´t enough to give him the energy and nutrition he needed. This pitiful excuse for food was meant to keep him from dying of hunger. He didn´t usually pay much attention to his food and he used to eat little, but still, this… He didn’t recognize it as human food. They were kind enough to give him a spoon for eating. Another problem was keeping this… porridge… in his stomach. The muddy water he had been given as his drink didn´t make his task of eating any easier, nor the smell which came from the bucket in the corner of his cell. It was meant to be his toilet. It would be nice if it had been cleaned sometimes, but smell was not the worst thing, people got used to it.

His food resembled brain tissue. He had experimented with animal brain tissue as a boy, taking it from dead animals he had found around the area of his home (he did not kill animals for this purpose, it would ruin the fun to find out the cause of death and he found enough dead material for his experiments otherwise). As a teenager, he had dreamed of getting a real human brain for his experiments, preferably one with an unknown cause of death, which he could have found out. It would have been like Christmas if he’d had a chance to solve a real murder, if nobody else would have figured out why or how. He was confident that his superior skills could solve puzzles like that, when the police was clueless. He knew that he was a genius of a sort.

But it had never happened. 

Now some suitable candidates came to his mind, whose brains would be an acceptable material for grey brain porridge. He wondered if brain tasted the same as his… food. Surely not…

This kind of track of thoughts had become more intriguing after he recovered from the consequences of when he first refused to eat this horrible substance. He had thrown the plate against the bars after Chameleon. The man had turned, grinning, as if Sherlock had just given him a gift, what he had wished for all year. He had been waiting for an excuse to hurt that spoiled, rich kid. Sherlock was sure that everything Chameleon did to him was personal. Chameleon´s two mates were there, ready to help. 

Sherlock had struggled, of course, when he had been pinned against the filthy mattress, one man sitting on his chest, the other holding his wrists, whilst the third collected the food back onto the plate the best he could. He still fought against them, squeezing his mouth firmly shut, but Chameleon pushed his first and middle fingers into his nostrils, cutting his air off. He tried to pull Chameleon´s fingers out, to shake his head, but his head was kept still, the fingers stayed there. Finally, he needed air so badly that his head felt like it would explode, and he had to give up. He opened his mouth to gasp. Chameleon was ready with a spoon full of filth and pushed it into his mouth. So it continued, one spoon after another into his mouth, his mouth closed after every spoon to make him swallow. They made sure he was really swallowing it all. He gasped between spoonfuls. He was nearly choking, he thought, Chameleon was killing him with his food. His heart beat fast with the adrenaline, telling him to fight for his life, but he was unable to fulfil the urge. They had taught him that he was not allowed to leave the food uneaten, that he had to obey or something would always happen that was much more unpleasant than just simple forced feeding. _Does he understand?_ Next time he would be on his knees, eating it all from the floor like a dog. And he would do it. _Has he understood?_

_Has he understood?_

_Yes._

And he nodded with difficulty, swallowing the last spoonful of dirty grey porridge.

_“Be grateful, you spoiled little shit.”_

_“W...what?”_

_“Say thank you, stupid.”_

Chameleon wrenched the dark hair hard from his scalp.

“Say thank you, with respect.”

“Th... thank you... thank you, sir.”

“That’s better. You’re starting to learn, kid,” Chameleon tapped his cheek playfully.

After the last forced spoon of food they still kept him down, holding his mouth shut as he gazed at them with eyes full of unspoken hate. 

Finally they left him alone, panting. The food made his stomach wrench, he really needed to throw up, but he did not dare. He was sure it wouldn´t end without punishment.

But after that, he had eaten everything nicely. Everything he had been given and more.

A cockroach.

Insects were an excellent protein source in challenging circumstances, like in a jungle or a desert- or sitting locked in a basement cell. Sherlock convinced himself that rationally, eating anything one could catch was a completely logical thing to do in his situation. He was naturally right. But he couldn´t help but shudder when he tried to bite his first kill. The learned aversion was hard to conquer, however logical his reasoning might be.  
Well, he ate it, after all. The first one was always the hardest, and the second cockroach was much easier to swallow. It wasn´t so bad after all, although they would be more tasty roasted.

He almost welcomed his first spider. He got a chance to compare their differences. 

Nothing could taste worse than the dog´s vomit he got as his meal. 

Now he spotted a big cockroach, but it was too far away from him to catch. He tried anyway, but his collar, which connected him to the stone wall, wasn´t long enough. He sighed in frustration. He tried once again and finally gave up and sat on his bunk, gazing at the animal, trying to make it come nearer to him with sheer will power, having nothing else to do. Hunting down the insects and spiders offered him a distraction that he needed so much, even more than their nutrition value.

His curls had started to be a bit longer than he liked, and he needed a shave. In fact, he was sure he smelt. 

How long? Two months, likely longer. Hard to say for sure, without clocks or any view outside. Sherlock had a good sense of time, but even for him it had started to be  
laborious to keep track of time. Chameleon´s visits were his only interruptions, which were never pleasant or interesting, and Sherlock didn’t miss his company.  
Besides, he couldn´t get any useful information from Moriarty´s man. 

He fingered his long curls, pensive. His collar chafed his raw skin. He counted his ribs, which were not hard to locate. He could as well count the rest of his bones just for his amusement. Of course he knew, how many bones a man had in his body, but what if he had lost some? 

He fell into sleep, and didn´t know what time he woke, actual nights and days were meaningless here. Behind the bars of his cell stood a girl. He blinked once, then twice, and the girl turned out to be a young woman. Her brown hair was tied in a ponytail; she wore a simple grass green shirt and skirt and her slave mark shone visibly on her forehead. Her expression wasn´t blank or cruel, but frightened, shy and determined. A strange combination, like she had been ordered to do something scary - or more preferably, to meet someone monstrous, but she had decided to do it despite the instinct, which told her to run in another direction. 

She had a tray with her… So she had brought him his meal. 

“Hi- hi. I have your dinner,” The woman spoke to him quietly. She had too small a mouth for her face, in his opinion. Lipstick would help. It would have done miracles for her, if she had carried herself more proudly. He would probably have pointed out all these tiny details if they had met under some other circumstances, in his school´s lab, but here, now, no. He did not. 

She wasn´t meant to talk to him at all. And he would… She put the tray down, concentrated on opening the door. Her hands shook a bit. Why? Had she had been told that he would try something? To bite her? That he was dangerous? It was not a completely wrong assumption, but considering that a short thick chain connected him to an even thicker wall, and if she didn´t seem prepared to give him a key for his collar, it was unlikely that he would attempt anything.

She finally got the door open, and put the tray as near to him as she dared before she retreated. 

She stared at his nakedness like he was a captured alien. Not really trusting- he could be potentially dangerous- but also definitely fascinated. She couldn´t move her eyes off his. He was unable to feel ashamed. It was not his fault that they hadn´t given him any clothes. He didn´t move, didn´t try to get the tray, wondering why they had sent this scared woman to him. At least this one had said something to him, showed that she considered him worth a couple of words that he still existed. Then he took a look at the watery soup with a couple of overcooked vegetables in it, and his muddy water. The water looked thicker than the soup. Something changed in the woman´s expression when she saw loathing in his face, and she added apologetically:

“I know, this is not what we usually, I mean, it could be better… If I could...” Her voice trailed off. She looked like she wanted to say more, but she was too nervous and frightened for that. She was very thin, too. Moriarty liked his slaves thin.

It probably it wasn´t him she was afraid of.

At least the woman didn´t treat him like he had leprosy. She had wanted to be kind to him for some unknown reason. Interesting… This could be useful later. He needed allies here. Molly was not born in slavery, so much he could see. In these people´s character, who were forced to slavery, was something mismatched, like this person´s body and mind were disconnected.

Sherlock contemplated her. “Name. What is your name?” His own words sounded wrong in his ears.

“Molly.” Then she turned, stepped over the threshold a second time, closed the door with a squeak and fled. She had surely stayed too long, said too many words.  
Sherlock was sure that it would not be left unnoticed by Moriarty. He was sure he was watched constantly, although he couldn´t see any cameras. He shrugged and turned to investigate his soup.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next time – he couldn´t be sure if it was the next day or the day after, the task of keeping track of days and nights was too laborious- Chameleon returned. Sherlock didn´t know if he came because of Molly, or because it was just his turn, but the chained young man withdrew instinctively until his back hit the wall. This time Chameleon didn´t carry the food tray, but he had his familiar back-ups with him. His two so-called friends.

“You have enjoyed our hospitality long enough, slave. It’s time for you to do some work for it. But, as a wild one, you need a bit of training. It was time for you to adjust. Friends,” he told to his companies, “prepare him.” 

Chameleon´s men (wrong, Sherlock reminded himself, they were all Moriarty´s men) gripped his limbs. He managed to kick the first one in the stomach with his bare feet. The man groaned, but the next one was prepared and got a hold on his ankle, making him lose his balance, and he fell onto the dirt. The man clicked shackles onto his ankles, whilst another did the same to his wrists. The chain around his neck was removed. His head was covered by a black hood, before he was ready to be carried… somewhere. 

To the next level, perhaps?

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Moriarty liked being dramatic. He liked antiques, too.

They let him stand in a dungeon- he couldn´t think of any other words to describe the room they were in now. The hood was taken away so he could take in his surroundings, get himself ready for what was coming. It seemed that the Middle Ages theme had continued. Shackles nicely decorated the stone walls. Hooks completed the interior decoration.

But his eyes stopped on the device in the middle of the room. At the time of inquisition it was often enough just to show a torture device to make a suspect to confess. 

How about now?

He had enough time that his destiny properly sunk in. He should be frightened, but this was ridiculous. He was unable to worry his wellbeing. What was wrong with Moriarty? He was not a man with the best mental health. Not even average. Sherlock wasn´t afraid of the reaction they wished from him. 

Then he was pushed closer to the device, and a voice whispered in his ear: “Do you know how this beauty works? Want to try?”

“Don´t you think, that this is a bit banal? Inquisition, really?”

“Let´s then try the limits of banality on you, darling.”

Two stocks, enough room between them for a grown man, a heavy wedge-shaped block in the middle. All right, what now?

He could picture it. 

And he would shortly experience it.

His ankles were secured into the stocks. He was bent, the small of the back against the hard and narrow block, as his wrists were manacled down to the other end of the device.

They were in the Middle Ages in Moriarty´s private time machine. He wouldn´t call this progress, or even very instructive. But it cut his back, and he suspected that he wouldn´t adjust to the device in any time period.

He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, his thoughts under control. 

This could still be worse, he reminded himself sternly. It could be The Virgin of Nuremberg.

“A sweet angel of mine, so wonderful to see you in person, it has been a while. Were spiders tasty, Sherly?” It was Moriarty who purred by his arched body. His hand ‘accidentally’ descended onto his crotch. Although this hateful man did not do anything accidentally.

“They tasted better than what your underlings usually served me.”

“I can send your greetings to the cook.”

Moriarty´s hand moved on his body.

“If I were you, I wouldn´t bother dear Molly. Such a sweet girl, but inclined to sweet talk. What a shame. She should not be let near psychos like you. You see, I know all about you… About your awkward little societal problems… What a disappointment you have been for your hard-working father, for your loving mother… how many tears for you they have cried, but do you care? Not a bit! Not a bit! Oh dear, a shameless son, a disgrace you have been as a good family´s son. Didn´t you wonder for one second why your father so eagerly gave you up? To keep them safe, darling. Such a tidy way to get rid of the potential danger in a family!”

Now Moriarty pressed his hand heavily on his prisoner´s abdomen, making the edge sink more deeply into his back. He wondered if he would be able to walk afterwards. 

“Your family don´t miss you, Sherly. They have wiped you from their mind. You are a danger, Sherly! But my dear, what a beautiful danger.”

“There is a name for your kind of people: a sociopath. Have you heard it before? Do you know, Sherly? You don´t care for society. Sociopaths don´t deserve the protection of our beloved society. But you are like me. I knew it. We know that our great society is only a coulisse for real powers, like me. But of course, this is better left unsaid in public.”

“You- you are delusional, Moriarty… and I… I am not… like… I won´t ever say yes to you… Never…”

“You do talk? Do you think that this is all, here? No, no, no, there is plenty more!”

“You wouldn´t… Have me… If my f… father did not… owe… you.”

“You talk too much, slave. That won´t do! I will fix it. You haven´t yet seen it. You are mine now, your mouth belongs to me.”

Sherlock felt Moriarty´s hand sliding on his bare chest, was almost sure, in his increasing discomfort, that his hand touched the burns. All his senses were occupied by one task: not to shatter like a dry twig. 

Just as his precious violin had been smashed into pieces. To create such a perfect wooden instrument needed skill and experience of years and a perfect ear for music. How easy it was to wreck. It didn´t need any skill or experience, just one savage. To break a person beyond repair would be more complicated. 

“Are you familiar with myths? No? Of course, you´re a man of reason and science. But I am tad fond of old stories with ancient wisdom in them. They tell us about moulding and becoming somebody else. A process of growth, finding an identity, fulfilling your destiny. For example, rebirth. Getting life through death. Like a flower. 

Have you ever tried to get a plant to bloom?” 

Answering the question proved more difficult, as whilst Moriarty talked about the subtleties of plant growing, his mouth was forced open and filled with thick flannel. After that, the hood was replaced around his head. Sherlock had become convinced that his spine was breaking in two. His whole body felt it.

“You need that, Sherly, before you are pretty, mine. Through death, my seed shall blossom. The seed is planted, but it needs water, darkness and fertilization. All these things. And trust in me, don´t forget, babe!”

Moriarty was right, Sherlock wasn´t familiar with myths any more than legends, fairy tales or fables. He knew what green plants needed, so they wouldn´t die, and he knew that he didn´t need them to survive.

“You must be thirsty. Oh, where are my manners? I haven´t offered any water for my guest! So sorry.”

Water he received.

Moriarty didn´t talk about surviving, not when he promised a new life. 

The black pain of cold water blocked his senses. He had little ability to get air, to think about something else beyond this. The wet fabric lay on his face like a second skin, making him gasp uselessly, stealing his last strength from him. Still more water was pouring over his hooded head, the flannel in his mouth, and through his dry throat down into his aching stomach. He was unable to do anything about it, and every cell in him screamed when he didn´t feel Moriarty´s hand any more.

Water filled his mouth and his empty stomach and his mind, he was sure this would be the end. His spine was cracking now and his lungs burning. Panic took control of him- though his rational mind assured him that he wouldn´t die that his animal instincts were just fooling him, his lungs felt ready to explode, his back arching over the wedge. This all felt too much.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like… he wasn´t sure any more.

Until his lips would pronounce the name Moriarty like salvation. Until his only thought was Moriarty´s want.

But he didn´t lower himself to it, he was not there yet, whatever was happening to him now.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He remembered. This particular memory hadn’t been deleted, only buried deep under the strata of his complicated mind. But it emerged now to the surface of his mind, clear for him.

His mother loved to study the sky. She had taught him the names of all the constellations, the wonders of night sky, the mysteries of suns and black holes, the momentary beauty of dying suns, the phases of the moon. 

He had deleted all that information as a burden to his brain, to make room for something more important, as he had thought. For knowledge of what makes humans live, and, even more thrillingly, what makes them die.

At this moment, nothing seemed more valuable than this particular memory from his early childhood, when he had studied the limitless space together with his mother. 

He saw the stars now, twinkling on the dark night sky. He could almost name the constellations on that sky. It was hard to tell for sure, because he had, well, deleted the exact information. But how did he see the star night here? 

His brain was just playing tricks on him. That was how.

Here where he was lying was very dark. But there was no sky full of stars above. He was just imaging them. His fingers touched the solid wooden surface just two inches above him. His aching existence reminded him that he wasn´t dead yet, he hadn´t been given that mercy, but maybe he would later. He could count on that. There was always something to look forward to. So exciting. 

He didn´t want to die.

But he could guess that he hadn’t yet reached even the midpoint, he was stepping through the gate of his personal loss. He was fulfilling Moriarty´s sick fantasy- that man needs a straightjacket- and it would cost him his life.

His head hurt. His back remembered what he had just gone through. He couldn´t believe his luck that his spine was still functional, that his toes were still capable of moving and he could still feel his legs. The tips of his fingers found initials _J. M._ , he had just enough space to do that.  
His fingers touched the wood all over, investigating the surroundings. The rough surface of the board. A tiny place. He smelt earth.

A coffin.

He shut his eyes so tightly he saw sparks behind his closed lids. He still could see the stars of his childhood night sky. He could almost, almost be among them, if he tried hard enough.

His mind palace could be enormous, and made just for him. _No borders, no tiny space with no room to change position. Everywhere just preferable, light, and with optimal space for him to pace, to study, to experiment. Not too much, not too little._

_He found all his life there. Everything he had studied, memorised, experienced, his formulas, experiments, theories, which he had done and would do, his most secret hopes, fears, plans for future. And nobody would be hidden there without his permission, in his personal rooms, studies, libraries, waiting in shadows, watching, ready to hurt, instruments of pain sharp and eager, waiting for use... just him._

He was suffocating. His oxygen was running out, it was hard to breathe. In so small a space, it wouldn´t last long. He had consumed too much already and next he would use the air that was already once consumed. And it was so dark that it didn´t make any difference whether he closed his eyes or kept them open. He had to get out from here, in one way or another. Suddenly his self-control gave way utterly. He had to move, there wasn´t any spare room there, not for his long legs to move or his lanky body to stretch. His muscles ached, and he started to try to dig himself out with his nails. When this failed, he kicked frantically against wooden walls which pressed against him as much as he could… and again he saw the false stars, not under the open sky, but at the bottom of his eyes, full of blackness.

He had thought that the cage in the barren room had been claustrophobic. Well, how wrong a man could be.

He needed to relieve himself. The urge to relieve himself had built slowly, but had steadily become more and more demanding. He really should. The men had forced him to drink all that water, filled him before they closed him in a coffin. What came in needed to come out. To soil himself here would be to lose a bit more worth. 

He could hold it. He had to. 

He had to get out. Immediately. He scraped his nails against the wooden roof, trying to break it. Was he buried underground, like a living corpse? Impossible to tell. His wooden prison could as well be on the floor in the middle of Moriarty´s bed room in a sick joke. Moriarty might be listening to his desperate attempts to get himself out in time for his amusement.

His nails scratched from his futile attempts to dig himself out. Again he had kept him there too long and he couldn´t take it, he had had enough of it all. He didn´t think about what would happen if he got himself out, if he really was under earth, how he supposed to get himself up through soil. His fingertips bled from his efforts to dig himself out from the coffin with his bare hands. His attempts were futile and doomed to fail. It was very difficult to prise open the thick wood. He tested his ability to move, to stretch himself… Not very good. The box was hardly longer or wider than him.

He could not breathe. The second hand air affected his brain like a drug. Panic would only worsen his situation, he had to fight against it. Shouting would consume precious oxygen and wouldn´t benefit him.

Eventually his body did what it needed to. He smelt his humiliation, and felt damp and filthy. The place he was kept was dark, like he was under earth, and it smelt of earth too. Surely he really was buried under earth to mimic a real death?

Sick bastard.

His body was tired of being restricted inside. He was weary. When tired he couldn´t analyse what would happen, where he would find himself. What nasty entertainment Moriarty had planned for him.

He could not get free. Even if he wasn´t locked and chained but stood under a night sky, counting the stars over him, he would not be free. His slave mark would always remind him of that. His society didn´t offer refuge or forgiveness for a slave. No such a place existed, but there were plenty of ways to make a stray slave beg for forgiveness. The most serious crime a slave could commit was to try to break free.

He once witnessed a public execution of an escaped slave, when he was just a little boy. His father had wanted to show it, his brother stood there by him. The slave was naked, for all to see, when she was electrocuted to death. He remembered how the woman- no, just a girl- had screamed.

He had taken his brother´s hand.

It wasn´t a pretty sight for a six-year old boy.

His father bought them ice creams from a café after that. It had been a hot, cloudless summer day.

He had believed that he had deleted that memory. Obviously he hadn’t.

“A slave,” he thought. No, he said it aloud, and started to giggle hysterically. “The slave?” They taught them about slaves’ freedom to be owned, to obey, to be ready for their owner. A slave achieved his purpose from his owner. He himself was nothing. 

He screamed. Nobody heard him. He was not dead, but buried under the earth, he could smell it even inside his coffin. Jim Moriarty promised him that much- a death experience.

_Calm down._

His body still lived through the moments of torture, and he might rest in peace.

“A slave…” He started to giggle hysterically, he couldn´t stop himself any more. The disdainful thought didn´t leave him in peace when it had come into his brain. “A slave doesn´t own anything, doesn´t want anything, doesn´t need anything. His owner is the slave’s everything, all it is good for is to fulfil its owners´ word. Slaves cannot be hurt, insulted, humiliated like a human could be. They don’t feel like humans do. Their emotional side is mere instinct, plant like responses to light and dark, threat, and more restricted and underdeveloped compared to the Free.” He didn´t remember if he had learnt this at school or in his house.

His giggle turned to a laugh, like this was the most hilarious joke in the world. 

His oxygen had run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will contain sex, which I have promised, but very non/con.


	4. Chapter 4

_There are different kinds of slaves for different tasks. Household slaves are servants; doing all domestic work, taking care of children, cooking, cleaning, and so on. Sometimes a slave gets special training to guard and train new slaves, as Chameleon did._

_Workers do the hard labour in the countryside, mines, factories, sometimes side by side with the poor free men and women, who are not exactly slaves, but who have a very low level of education and who can hardly live with the money they get from their hard, and usually dirty, work. Lots of new slaves come from this lowest and poorest class, especially when these people have too many children and too little money to feed them._

_Finally, there are luxury slaves, sex slaves and bed slaves like Sherlock, whatever name they are called by. They are the most expensive to keep and only the upper class can afford to keep them. They are considered expensive, lazy pets than workers or servants. They can also work in the luxury institutes, like illegal gambling houses, whorehouses and night clubs. Some slaves may envy them, although most of them just show disdain or hate them, and hardly anyone wants to befriend them. Many are also the victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse, although no one in this society classified any of their treatment as illegal. After all, that is what they are for, aren´t they? To be toyed with and used. Mostly they are young, pretty and prematurely dead._

* * *

Sherlock awoke in a soft bed, silken sheets rumpled around him. He didn´t open his eyes to reveal that he had woken. He wanted to get a chance to collect the data from the situation he had been put in this time before Moriarty was on him again. He surely wasn’t under earth or in a cold basement this time. The room felt warm and light, the air clean. Soft morning light warmed his closed lids. But he should not become too excited about his new, more pleasant surroundings. The dull ache stayed in his stomach, but he felt rested. Some part of him was already reassuring him that this meant a huge improvement. The sane part of him might have laughed at the false sense of safety, if he still had any humour left after the coffin.   
He knew that he was not in safe, although the luxurious fabric against his skin and all this warmth after he had been cold so long time felt blessed. He decided to enjoy it for as long as he was allowed, to rest and to gather his strength. Even he could not neglect his body´s needs indefinitely. 

Too soon the moment of peace was over. The hated voice purred near him:

“Darling, are you awake? It’s time to have fun!”

It wouldn’t be, if he could decide. Sherlock kept his eyes stubbornly closed; he lay still pretending to sleep.

“You think that you can pretend, but you don´t fool me. I knoooow that you are awake, my babe! I see it!”

Sherlock felt a hand playing on his long curls. How he hated that touch, and especially on his hair. He had to concentrate with all his willpower to stay still and not to push the hand away. 

_Go away. Leave me. Alone._

Jim had climbed onto his torso. His hand grabbed his hair to keep his head on the spot. Jim said to him: “You don´t sleep anymore, but you are free to pretend whatever you please, it doesn´t matter. Soon your body will do exactly what I want, whatever you think about it.”

That was it. Sherlock didn´t pretend that he was asleep anymore, and tried to buck Jim from his belly. But the smaller man had a steady position and twisted Sherlock´s head against the pillow. Sherlock struggled under Jim, against the inevitable, even when a needle punctured the skin of his bare neck and the drug was injected. He had been drugged again. He should not have been surprised.

Sherlock stiffened under Moriarty, who waited to give the poison enough time to take effect. He felt Jim´s clothed body touching him; the expensive material itched his bare skin when Jim´s finger circled slowly, unnerving on his chest. They stayed like that for a while. First he didn´t notice any difference, but then his body started to relax against his will. Soon, his struggle became futile. Jim whispered things he didn´t want to hear into his ear: _About what a good girl he was, how silken his skin felt, how wonderfully slender he was, how he would become even thinner. Jim would help him with that. Jim would take care for everything. How his man made him feel so good, that he would beg to get more and more. Oh, and Jim would give it all. Yes, he would be so happy to hear his girl to beg for him._ Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back, but the only sound he managed to make was a weak, strange whine. He needed all his strength and concentration to make this peculiar sound. Something was very, very wrong. He noticed in a growing panic that he couldn´t move his limbs, however hard he tried, and he couldn´t speak. His muscles refused to cooperate. The connection from his brain to his muscles was broken.

His tormentor´s lips were near his earlobe. The whispers had stopped and he felt a soft tongue licking his ear. It was wet and inappropriate. He didn´t want it there, but he couldn´t do anything to make it go away. _What a good girl he is, how smooth he is to touch, how Jim had waited this so long. Don´t make him wait any longer. He doesn´t need to wait any longer. What bliss._  
He could not silence the odious words drooling like poisoned honey from the lips of his tormentor, the touches he could not reject. The memories of pain, cold and hunger had been planted in his body, but now they were replaced by softness, warmth and pleasure. Nothing ached any more, but the criminal still hurt him. Every gentle touch ripped at him, made his true self escape deeper inside him to capitulate, to fall asleep, to defend itself from Jim´s intrusions. 

Jim´s fingers were exploring his skin, like curious ants crawling over him. His lips pressed a kiss on the nape of his neck. His neck remembered the agony of being electrocuted, the shock had threatened the complicated workings of his brain, and now his so-called husband kissed him on the same spot. His rapist. 

Jim´s tips of fingers intruded his mouth, which was half-open ridiculously, letting his saliva moisten them. Moriarty´s saliva-wet fingers massaged his nipples, telling him that he would make them erect, because he liked them bigger and tender. There were methods to modify almost any part of the body and Jim had tried all of them with his lovely boys. Then he could make him come just by teasing his nipples. Sherlock felt Jim’s erection rub against his defenceless buttocks. His enemy´s hand pressed his stomach, keeping him close when Jim´s slick fingers smoothed his arse, stroked its boyish solidness. His fingers widened the cheeks, circulated around the virgin hole.

No one had ever touched him like that before. The drug in his veins muted his terror, his urge to hit the man behind him. It made him amenable and passive, sensitive to touch. His mind told him to avoid the fingers, but his body wanted to get closer. 

_This is just flesh. Transport. Hardly me at all_ , he thought foggily. But why wasn’t he convinced?

Jim would be his slave´s first time, just as he had planned. He strictly forbade his underlings from violating his property before him. Jim wanted him to get his first pleasure from him, so that he would never forget it. He would remember it as long as blood flowed in his veins. He belonged only to Moriarty after that.

“Oh, my beautiful girl! It’s time to play a little game with Jimmy-boy. Don´t worry if you don´t know the rules, I am here to teach you.”

Jim sat there, amused, delighted. His warm hand _(how the warmness of these cruel hands disturbed him, felt wrong, too intimate, like a doctor´s warmed hands when they started to examine a patient)_ lingered on his stomach.

Sherlock felt Jim´s finger slipping inside, and then another followed the second. They were a bit too dry to feel completely comfortable. He gasped from the new sensations, when the fingers spread him open and examined him inside, waking up nerves he didn´t know even existed and making him respond. The other, slightly-too-warm hand cupped his balls, tested their weight and texture, and squeezed them gently. Jim enjoyed the unwanted whimpers he managed to get out of his slave. He sighed from the touch. More. His flesh couldn´t shut down the unwanted waves of pleasure. It was not that he never would have wanted to do this. But not like this, not with Jim Moriarty. 

“Ha! Have you ever tried this by yourself? No? What a waste! You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Sherlock heard Jim´s whispers in his ear, as the man continued to finger him.   
“Don’t be afraid, my girl, I am careful. Nothing hurts you, not now.” 

His cock was becoming hard, and Jim´s left hand caressed it, feather light. At least one part of him seemed to work still. Jim tried his shaft, tugging it once to feel its firmness. His other hand still continued to stimulate his prostate and the younger man opened more for Jim. He tried to focus on the wall paper, red roses and bees, to get his thoughts away from what was happening to him. But the old-fashioned, complicated pattern blurred in front of his eyes into red, dark green and gold, and he let out a moan as his body cooperated with Jim´s. His limbs didn´t obey his brain´s orders to strangle his tormentor, whatever the consequences would be after that for him. He couldn´t care less at this moment. But no, that couldn’t happen when his long legs and slender arms were like ragdolls’, his mind cloudy and his body on fire.

He was lost. The bed felt like quicksand, his only anchors were Jim´s hand on him, Jim´s body by him, Jim´s soft, sharp tongue playing on him. 

After ages, Jim´s fingers withdrew from him, leaving him empty, but not for long, and then, yes, then there was something bigger thrusting into him. Jim´s cock intruded in and out, probing his tight depths. It wasn´t thick, but quite long, and it rubbed his prostate, making Sherlock´s cock stir in unison with it.

“Darling, we will come together. I insist! Dare to come before me, and you will be sorry.”

Moisture had started to gather on the top of Sherlock´s glans, Jim´s palm on it like a promise. Sherlock let out another pained sound. He couldn´t hold up much longer, whatever Jim threatened to do to him.

Jim decided it was the time. His right hand rounded Sherlock´s length and yanked it forcefully, his slender hips starting steady back and forth -movements. The last part of their encounter was shortly over.  
Jim came, shouting aloud, and Sherlock managed to make a strained shriek. They ejaculated together as Jim had demanded. Sherlock was in a cold sweat, panting from the effort. With an unpleasant smack, Jim´s pulled himself out, but he had grabbed a generous-sized plug from somewhere. He now placed it into his slave to keep his master´s semen inside him, so he would not feel empty, not have to be without his master. It was kindness, Jim thought.

“How delicious you are, my sweetheart, the others before you have just been practise. I have chosen well.”

Sherlock let himself rest on the black sheets, listening numbly as his rapist praised him. The drug still kept him faint, his mind cloudy and limbs disobedient. He would have cried, this would have been a suitable opportunity, but he couldn´t. He never cried, and he certainly didn´t want to do it in his assaulter´s presence. He hardly noticed when Jim cleaned his back and arse with a warm, wet flannel, before pushing him onto his back to clean his chest, stomach and finally his genitalia carefully, even pushed at his foreskin. Despite Moriarty´s cleaning, Sherlock felt dirty to his core. Not to mention how his tormentor´s semen filled him, how the plug nudged his gland distractingly every time he shifted.

He had to get used to it, too.

“My love.” Moriarty smoothed his girlish curls, combed them with his fingers like a mother for her child, but his other hand was seeking for something. He found another accessory for his living sex toy. With experienced hands he locked Sherlock´s now soft cock inside the chastity belt. It was very small, his cock hardly fitted in properly, with only a tiny hole for his natural needs, and a steady leather belt to keep it in place. It couldn´t be removed without a key, which Jim hid in his pocket.   
Sherlock wondered, if the thing was hygienic.

“You surely think that you don´t need this, but wait! You should not underestimate your body´s needs when they have awaken, my innocent girl. I could not let you touch yourself without my permission, no, no, it would not do!” Now Moriarty whispered to his ear in the most intimate, sexy way, as he twisted the plug until his slave wailed, despite the fact that he had just recently come. ”Because you belong to me. I made you come for me. Now, I want you to eat for me.”

Sherlock´s eyes widened when he saw a catering trolley laden with pastries and cakes rolled towards them by a silent servant, leaving it by the bed. Sherlock paled slightly seeing all the sweets.

“Girls like sugar! I want you to be a good girl for me and eat them all. I´ll help you. I have reserved all day to be with you. Just me and you, my dearest. So, let´s start.”

* * *

Sherlock threw up the pastries Moriarty stuffed into him twice. Moriarty commented that his girl´s table manners needed improvement, whilst he clenched his long white throat to make him eat more, pushing another piece of cake into his mouth. Sherlock used the last reserves of his will power to keep the desserts down, to get out of this last, peculiar ordeal.

He hadn´t eaten properly for some months and now he was so full. At least they left him alone in his room behind a locked door and a dimmed bulletproof window after Moriarty had finished with him. Moriarty kept his eyes on him with the help of cameras at every corner of the room, so much was certain. He didn´t need even to check that. The room itself was sparsely, although expensively, furnished, with two tables, a bed, a chair and a light purple divan. A soft red rug, and a massive wardrobe and a dresser with big mirrors. A dresser with perfumes and makeup? For what…? He wouldn´t think further, the drug kept his mind still in its grip. The place was warm at least, and the bed comfortable. The drug and events of this morning had exhausted him, and he slipped into a welcome sleep. 

When he woke up late, the room was dark. He felt oddly empty in spite of everything Moriarty had forced him to swallow. He shivered despite of the room was warm. He wrapped a blanket around himself, curled into a ball on the bed and felt sick to his very core, thinking over and over again of how Moriarty had touched him, had been inside him. The memory of their simultaneous orgasms made him shiver. 

It would happen again, he knew it. This was his life now.

* * *

After their first morning together, Moriarty didn´t neglect Sherlock. He gave him all his attention every day. Sherlock felt himself well-used. There were days when he didn´t let him to return to his room afterwards, but tied him to his bed so tightly that he couldn’t even sit up. He had to lie down the whole, long day, staring at the ceiling, the familiar plug in place keeping Moriarty´s warm semen firmly inside him, waiting for his master to come back after his business day to play with him or just cuddle him. He should have been bored into his core, but the drugs left him floating on a soft grey cloud, where all details were blurred, his thoughts stagnated and his body was supple for Jim.

But sometimes, in his sharper moments, he pulled his chains to try to make them give way. They never did, but he had to try, for his own sake. 

When the darkness fell, Jim carried some food and fed his slave personally. He wasn´t allowed to eat anything by himself as an independent person. It was a kind of kinky ritual when he ripped the food into little pieces and pushed them into his slave´s mouth one by one, watching his slave, enthralled as he swallowed his meal without resistance, opening his mouth to wait for another piece. He didn´t know any more if he was hungry or not, Moriarty decided that for him. If Moriarty was busy or didn´t have enough patience, he would leave without his meal. The feeding process was one way to demonstrate his power on Sherlock: forcing his victim to take in what his master offered him in his kindness: food, his tongue, his fingers or his prick. The more Sherlock lost his independence, the more he would need his master and the more his master was pleased by him. It was the groundwork and the core of their relationship´s delicate balance: the one-sided dependence.

Every time Jim raped him, his hard cock stimulated his prostate with its every push, and Sherlock´s cock stirred with frustration in its prison. The chastity belt had become a part of him, like a twisted wedding ring, not allowing him to get fulfilment. His body was constantly needy and begging for relief. 

Finally, he was so meddled with and exhausted that when he had stopped to think, all he could think about was his dull abasement, and nothing else. Slowly but inevitably Moriarty was turning him into his human joy machine, whose only purpose was to entertain his master. He was sure that his confused and humiliated body would never recover and go back to what it used to be before his slavery, even if he got a chance to get his life back.

* * *

In the looking glass, a strange sight stared back at him. His reflection´s black curls descended loosely on his shoulders. Moriarty had brushed his hair carefully this morning, telling his slave, who sat still and silent, that he had something special for him. His make-up was applied skilfully, but it bothered him anyway. Moriarty told him that he would teach him to do it by himself- so he would do this every day, then. He should be grateful for his new chance to please his master. Moriarty was straining the laces of his brand new black and salmon corset. The job could have been done by the slaves, but he wanted to take care of it personally. Sherlock´s yellow silk dress was still waiting on the chair. The rose red chastity belt was on, naturally. They could try knickers later. Sherlock felt his spine straighten, rigid, his arse disturbingly prominent when Moriarty´s hand smoothed his bullocks after finishing with the laces. 

Sherlock wondered if the reflection in the looking glass was really him. Jim said that his new corset was made for practise. It was meant for young girls, so it couldn´t be tightened very much. It was enough for his Sherlock, who had so much still to learn, but later he would use another one, which could be tightened until Jim´s fingers could get around Sherlock´s waist. It was hard to believe, but it would happen. Sherlock´s body needed time to adjust to his new role, and Jim understood. His girl needed time. Jim was giving him all this as a gift; time, air and space. Without Jim he would have suffocated in the coffin, he knew to whom he should be grateful.

“Look, darling, how well it fits you. How it changes you. That was exactly what you needed.”

Sherlock nodded obediently, although the corset pressed his bones against his lungs and he couldn´t imagine the corset´s laces being pulled any tighter than there already were, pressing his chest almost intolerably. The corset gave him a perfect posture, but he couldn´t close his mind. The luxurious dress was to be put on him. The flowery perfume wafted strongly around him.

Sherlock´s reflection watched back at him and he couldn´t recognize it. Sherlock felt like he was imprisoned in the body of a stranger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is progessing painfully slowly, but surely. The plot bunny had abandoned me, but now I am writing the next chapter.  
> Please, mind the tags. More disturbing content in this chapter.

Moran knocked at the closed door. Although he was invited, it was better not to anger Moriarty by rushing in without warning him first. Moriarty´s mood could change in a nanosecond from delightful to murderous. That was the beauty and danger of the man. You never knew what Moriarty was up to.

But he was eager to take a look at Moriarty´s new slave. He had heard rumours about his newest pet amongst the staff, but he wanted to witness the young man´s progress with his own eyes. Slaves like to talk when they have nothing better to do. 

Moriarty´s new slave lay supine on his big bed, his legs spread wide by a leg spread to keep them out of way. His ass was nicely on hand. Moriarty stopped to twist an oversized plug, which vanished into the depths of his slave, as Moran greeted him. Sherlock´s hands were free, but he knew better than to try to prevent his master. 

“What d´you think, dear Seb? I am doing some exercises with my girl. He likes my efforts.”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“You are always so pessimistic. Is that good for business? You will see.”

Moriarty pulled the enormous plug out of Sherlock, who let out a muffled wail. The sharp edges of the massive cylinder were reddened. On this rare occasion, his cock lay freely on his belly, and reacted obediently to the stimulation he was subjected to.

Despite the circumstances, he felt grateful for this momentary freedom.

“Oh, have you hurt yourself? You should be more careful, Sherly.” Moriarty said mockingly. 

He put the bloodied plug on the night table and picked another toy. 

“You know my enthusiasm towards history, Seb. Here: I have made anal beads in the Victorian style with my own skilled hands. Well, handicraft is not my strongest area, but I have done a decent job with this, don´t you agree? My girl gets the privilege of being the first to try it. “

More or less round, yellowish pieces were tied together with a string, forming a strange looking necklace. Expect that it wasn´t a necklace. Moriarty started to push his home-made pearls one by one inside Sherlock´s hole. Piece after another vanished between the slave´s red-smeared buttocks. The stink would increase after a while, and the scratches caused by the plug intensified the sensation, the smarting fast turning intolerable. He couldn´t relax his muscles, which would have made the process bearable. Moriarty forced a ball of raw ginger after another into his wounded hole. He cried out.

“Relax, my girl, don´t push back, you can take all twenty in. You should be thankful for my efforts, when I have worked so hard. I’m only thinking of your best, so you won’t get bored. I want you to feel special for me.”

“Enough, master, I cannot... please.”

“No, no, not yet.”

“Thank him!” commanded the Colonel who had ruined the young man´s father.

“Thank you, my master, thank you....”

“You are very welcome, my dear. “

After a short eternity, the final piece of ginger vanished between his cheeks, and Sherlock sighed in submission at the intensified stinging. Moriarty unlocked the leg spreader, releasing the young man´s legs.

“I want you to walk for me, dear.”

Sherlock managed to get up with difficulty; his tightly laced corset made him stiff, the burn inside him made him want to squirm and the high heels to which he was not yet accustomed made him wobble.  
His cock was proudly erect from the excitement. Sherlock flushed in shame.

“Brand new shoes, however lovely they are, are always like that. You have to get your feet used to them before they feel like yours.” Moriarty explained conversationally, as Sherlock progressed slowly in his kinky cat walk, and Moran sat down to enjoy the scene. He saw, that Sheröck has been recently spanked. It has rosy colour, which suited to the slave´s pale skin. He felt his own cock stiffened, and he hoped, that Moriarty wouldn´t notice.

“You have something for me, sir?” Moran´s fingers tapped nervously, whilst his other hand searched his pocket before stopping in the middle of its movement. Moriarty understood what Moran was looking for. 

“What a splendid idea! Of course, take them out, but wait a second, we need an ashtray!” The new thought made Moriarty almost jump from delight.

Moran raised his eyebrow. This was unexpected. Moriarty didn´t usually let anyone smoke near him, he hated cigarette smoke. Why would he now…? Moriarty had one of his moods again. Soon Moran understood his boss´ thought, as he ordered Sherlock to lie down again between them on his back. Moran grinned widely. It really was a fascinating idea.

“Open your mouth for my friend. Otherwise I’ll have to use your spider gag, which would disappoint me and would certainly cause discomfort for you.”

Sherlock nodded, and opened his mouth at once to show that he had understood. His master wanted to show off to the suspicious Colonel. Moran dropped ashes into the waiting mouth, and Sherlock closed it at once to swallow.

“No! Keep it open!” Moriarty ordered. Sherlock opened his mouth obediently for another burst of ash. His swallowed nothing; his mouth felt very dry and it tasted disgusting. Moriarty smoked thick handmade cigars, smuggled from Cuba.  
Moriarty kept his hand possessively on his slave´s chest, whilst he continued his chat with the Colonel. 

“A proper training with a firm hand, that´s all these wild sluts need.” Moriarty explained with an owner´s pride.

“He reacts nicely, feel free to try it yourself. “

“Thank you, sir, you are too generous.”

“Not at all. You gave him to me.”

“It was a fruitful cooperation, sir.”

As Moran talked, his hand slid over young man´s cock, yanking it. Sherlock took even that, he took all he was given. There he was, lying on his back, his corset keeping him at bay whilst he served as a living ashtray for the man who had given him to Moriarty, who now lazily pleasured him with the permission of his insane owner. The two men small talked about gambling business, the branch of Moriarty´s company which Moran controlled. Gambling, which destroyed Sherlock´s father and sent Sherlock into sex slavery, was Moran´s speciality. Moran stroked his shaft up to down to its full length, his thumb rubbing the surface of the glans, occasionally teasing its orifice. He didn´t need much stimulation. He wailed from the intensity of the moment. The ginger had distracted him just enough, but now he was almost there, ready to come for these criminals, like a shameless whore…

Moriarty nodded. His eyes glittered in pure joy; he liked to watch as much as he enjoyed action. Moran pushed his still burning cigarette onto Sherlock´s lean stomach, just above his cock, whilst yanking the shaft in his hand a couple of times, pushing the man in his hand over the edge. Sherlock´s body pulsed when he came with a shout. His semen squirted over his newest burn wound. Sherlock turned his face away, wanting to hide himself from the men, who witnessed his face revealing the climax of pleasure and self-hatred.

* * *

The growing collection of scars formed a web on his skin, milestones of his time in Moriarty´s house. His destiny was his final alienation from his body, losing control of its all functions. His brilliant mind was losing its beauty, leaving it imprisoned in the inner space of his fragile skull, as his instincts overcame him. His main worry now was observing Moriarty´s moods day to day, and trying to survive them. Soon he realised that that was exactly what Moriarty´s people did more or less all the time, because their well-being and lives depended on Moriarty´s changing moods. They did everything they could to satisfy the madman, to keep him, if not balanced (that would be an impossible task), at least happy and in a good mood.

What a waste of people´s lives. Although most of them didn´t deserve better.

But him? The chastity belt kept him distracted and scattered. The drug made his body constantly oversensitive and the belt prevented him from doing something about it. He would be always ready and libidinous for his master. 

Humiliating. He was pathetic. This was worse than any dungeon that Moriarty had locked him in. His body was tingling; his cock longed to break free. 

He touched himself, smoothed his unhappy flesh, which was always restless and horny. Unsuccessfully he tried to calm himself down. He had hardly ever needed to masturbate, but now the urge was overwhelming. His sharp, perfect mind slipped dangerously. His crotch demanded his constant attention. He couldn´t even think about anything else. He was unable to satisfy his needs, to silence the demand of his desire, to make this just stop. 

He was losing the battle.

This was the fault of the drugs. His foggy mind could only concentrate on the chemically created urges of his useless, wanton body. He could recognise the effects of the drugs that meddled with his system, but he couldn´t turn them down. Even his past had started to fade away, and with it the most important things in his life: science. His experiments felt like a dream; already they were vanishing. Only his body´s constant restlessness felt real. His fingers stroked uselessly at the tiny plastic orange tube, which prevented him from achieving his relief. He teased his heavy balls, sighed. _Please, master of mine, please… let me… I am a good girl. Please._

Like ants running under his skin, he was unable to break the surface and remove the intruders. He slithered on the sweaty bed sheets, looking for comfort with only one thought filling his head. He felt ill. He felt locked in a very tiny place, although only a very small part of him was imprisoned this time. He played with his bloated nipples, which Moriarty had pierced one hot night, when he had been in an unusual playful mood. Sherlock tugged his nipple rings to test his reactions. The sensation made him wail loud from frustration. He had to try something or he would lose his mind. 

Finally he half-lay down on his bed, half-knelt, and licked his fingers to make them slippery, easing the penetration. Almost accidentally, he scissored himself more open and pushed his finger inside to calm his fever. His middle finger slipped in with unexpected ease, his body willingly swallowed it. He sighed silently when he found his target. Ah, there was the exact area. He knew that this could not give him total relief, but it gave him something to do, and the illusion that he could help his discomfort by letting his finger tease his most sensitive spot. It was the first time he had examined himself like that. The waves of sensations filled his overheated body. _Ah. Ah, ah, ahh…_

Finally, he wasn´t sure if the self-fucking just made him feel worse than before. 

His pointless efforts to anchor himself failed altogether. He lay supine on the bed, wondering if time passed at all, or if it was frozen in this frustrating moment of fruitless desire.

A playful series of knocks on the door interrupted his existential crisis.

“Surprise, sweetheart!” He heard the familiar shout as the heavy door opened.

What did the man want now?

Sherlock raised himself to sit; he didn´t want Moriarty to see him so pathetic. He tried hastily to retain some dignity for his half-naked frame by wrapping his thin sheet over him, his skimpy clothing, and his pitiful state. 

He hadn’t been allowed to wear decent clothing for ages.

Nothing could escape Moriarty´s eyes. The man was like he used to be, sharp and observant. He knew from one glance, what Sherlock had tried, unsuccessfully and against all odds, to do to ease his itching. The knowledge lifted his mood even more.  
“Dear, have you tried to entertain yourself? Have I neglected you? Be patient! You will soon get my full attention, but before that…”

Moriarty pushed a long box towards him. He had a new, dark grey suit, Sherlock observed, made by his favourite designer. Sherlock stared numbly at the box on the expensive antique table. The shape of the gift box was familiar to him. But, it could not be that. It was not possible.

“A little gift for you. And you will soon get a chance to use it, so - OPEN IT!” Sherlock took the box. It was wrapped in thick black gift paper, of the finest quality, with silver stars and a golden label on it: “For My Beautiful Girl.” Sherlock couldn’t really appreciate Jim´s effort to impress him. He ripped the expensive paper off, opened the box, and froze when he saw its contents. 

A violin box. He had been right. He let out a breath and opened the box. On the red velvet rested a violin, an old and rare one, although of course not the one which Moran destroyed a long time ago. Sherlock let his fingers smooth the surface. 

“Now, try it!” Moriarty ordered glee in his lifeless eyes. “I want to hear how you play it. I have heard that you are an excellent violinist. Now I want you to prove it to me. I want you to play for me.”

Sherlock took the instrument carefully to examine it closer. As a talented violinist, he was capable of valuing the instrument, but he loathed the thought that he had to play to Moriarty. He had always played alone. Playing was the most private and intimate act for him, a bit like lovemaking was for the rest of the mankind. And now he should share it with the man he wished a painful death on.

He elevated the violin into position under his chin, grabbed a bow and tried, to see if the violin was in tune. The sound was perfect, though it couldn´t beat his old one. No violin could.

Jim sat on his chair, grinning happily, and waiting for the concert. Sherlock tried to shut out the presence of the man, who sat relaxed in front of him and closed his eyes. This wouldn´t work if he couldn´t concentrate fully, and if he didn´t manage then he would be hurt again. He wouldn´t survive it, not now, not after the last time. He was just recovering from his latest punishment, he couldn´t take another one so soon. He shivered from the memory of a sharp scalpel slicing his skin. He wasn´t so heavily drugged at this moment, so maybe he could succeed.

He started with something he knew by heart, which even this place couldn’t take from him. He would be grateful if he was allowed to keep the violin. It could help him stand his existence, escaping with the help of the music he created.  
HIs effort was ruined by Moriarty´s words.

“Better than I expected, you´re talented, my girl. I think that I can arrange an audience for you, a nice small party for close friends of mine! I am sure you will be excited to see them all, and do your best for them.”

Sherlock shivered. He didn´t want to imagine what kind of friends Moriarty would have besides Colonel Moran. But he was surprised that he could play the beautiful instrument so well, despite Moriarty´s presence. 

“I want you to practise every day from now. Disappointing me is not an option for you. I have my ways to make you obey. If you don´t want to play to them, I can make you serve them another way. Just think about that… I will immobilise you, leaving your erogenous zones exposed, and then they will be free to use you. Or you can give them the concert and nothing else. I just think that a concert would be nice… something new. But it is up to you anyway, dear. Because I am generous person, I’m letting you choice this time…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and giving kudos and bookmarking. Reviews are also always nice. :)


	6. Chapter 6

In the photo, smiling, Moriarty hosted a dinner party for the most dangerous criminal leaders in London. The table was laden with shining crystals, antique silver, fine china, rare wines and the finest examples of culinary art, as if his guests were princes. Mycroft studied the photo stream.

Moriarty was still relatively young, a little younger than Mycroft, but he had gained a reputation which had made the country´s most important authorities´ attention turn to him. Moriarty might believe that he had managed to stay in the shadows, unnoticed, but nothing could stay hidden from the watchful eyes of the Secret Intelligence Service.

MI7 existed because of people like James “Jim” Moriarty; an internal security network to keep an eye on all possible threats, from a terrorist attack to a lonely blackmailer. It didn´t matter if they were domestic in their origin, or if the threat came from outside the borders of the country. During the chaotic times of the war, criminals got new chances: the black market, smuggling, spying for money and the slave trade prospered. The Secret Service needed effective men in its service, and that was when Mycroft got his chance. At any other time, he would have been too young to get the position he did. But when he did, he worked very hard to strengthen his position and influence inside MI7. 

Officially, the Secret Service didn´t exist. Officially, Mycroft Holmes held only a minor position inside the government, a tiny cog in a very big clock, as he liked to call himself. He didn´t want to shine in the spotlight in front of a big audience. He had gained very much, very young. He was well aware of his value, his extraordinary qualities and his talent. He was irreplaceable and he knew it. His little brother would have loathed it. The memory of his brother made his heart ache, but he suppressed it. He had work to do.

They had to be careful of people like Moriarty, for the sake of the safety of the country. Mycroft Holmes investigated the photos his agent had sent him some minutes ago. The agent worked under an alias as a leader of a smuggler ring to get as near as possible to their target. They had to investigate these people. The most dangerous ones were also the most protected, and the better they knew them, the easier it was to form an effective plan. The job was dangerous, they had lost agents during their underground tasks, but it was the most effective way to do it. 

Moriarty didn´t organise dinner parties. He simply was not a man who was interested in conventional sociability. This had to be something important. The department had been unable to connect Moriarty directly to any criminal activities. In fact, Moriarty had stayed an enigmatic character, who was careful not to dirty his hands. He also seemed to have connections to many hollow business, but it was not easy to prove anything. Officially he was a consulting businessman. He had invented the title himself.

In reality, he was a common denominator for many illegal projects, like in the case of the fake Monet, which the National Gallery bought from a South American art collector, who later proved to be a business partner of the international Candy Company, which was owned by Mr. James L. I. Zard. 

Or the case of a vanished slave trader, whose clients were no less esteemed than the Royal Court, and personally the Prince, as well as many celebrities. He left a teary wife behind him.

He was a man with many talents and interests. He had his fingers in many pies. 

The criminal was up to something. That was not exactly hard to discover. But what? Despite his relatively young age, he had gained such a position in the London – and wider– criminal scene, that he was classified as the most dangerous criminal in London. He was very intelligent, had emerged from nowhere in his twenties during the War, and had expanded his activities and influence after that. However, he was still young, and had a lot to gain in illegal business. 

As much as Mycroft knew, Moriarty hadn´t been interested at all in co-operating with other criminals. This part was completely exceptional. The man was planning something, and it was Mycroft´s job to find it out and stop him.

Five men and one woman – female leaders were still a rarity in criminal circles – were watching a performance. Mycroft had a couple of photos from it too. He stared at the slave playing a violin.

He knew the slave. He knew him, although it had been over a year since he had last seen him. But he would know him anywhere, anytime, whatever had happened, however long had passed. The young man was tall and gaunt with long dark curly hair and strong make-up, dressed in a tight corset, dangerously high heels, and a dark blue silk dress. His expression was completely blank, and he played an old, expensive violin for the criminals in a way Mycroft had heard before, a long time ago. He could never forget it.

Not an ordinary slave at all.

Mycroft´s heart forgot how to beat. This young man was none other than his absent younger brother. Now he was an entertainer, dressed like a whore, posed like a trained monkey in a cheap market place. 

Mycroft knew for sure who was to blame for this. His younger brother had vanished mysteriously a year and a half ago from their home. Their father had looked confused, but supposed that he had simply left his family without leaving a note, without saying goodbye. 

Mycroft had never believed it. Sherlock had left unfinished experiments, which was not like him. His brother also had plans for his future. Mycroft knew them, although they didn´t talk much, or rather Mycroft had tried to talk with him, but it usually ended without a response or with a sarcastic comment. But he hadn’t been in a position where he could be independent from his father´s influence and money.

Mycroft didn´t have any evidence or opportunity to research properly at that time. He hadn´t gained the independence which he had achieved recently, after preventing a terrorist plan to blow up a flight full of passengers. But he had advanced fast and efficiently. He tried to do some investigation himself, but they didn´t lead him to the results he had hoped for. But now he knew. 

The Royal Slave Ministry was working independently. Its protector was the King´s young brother, Prince Philipp Anders the Second; an unusually untalented man, who devoted his life to investigating conspiracy theories. Even Mycroft, the secret service´s young top official, had to use all his influence and unofficial contacts to get his hand into the protected files of the Royal Slave Ministry´s archive to do private research, to get some hints of the fate of his young brother.

Mycroft could thank his father for his career. They had many similarities. He had a sharp wit, which he liked to turn into practical results. He was an ambitious man, who was able to fit his societies’ norms and ideals, at least superficially. In reality, he used them for his own good. His brother had always been more like their mother: a scientist, an artist (he loved music) and a rebel, who never learnt to respect social demands. He was constantly at war with his father because of what he was. Mycroft was a pragmatist, who learnt very early to use the system instead of fighting against it. He was his father´s favourite. Richard even thought that his older son would realise his dreams of gaining success and power. So he used his money to give his son the opportunity to make the career he couldn´t do. 

But Mycroft wasn´t like his father to his core: his goal was to get such a position where he could be independent from his father´s money and influence. He had never wanted to be like his father: his father used his talents for selfish purposes and corrupted projects, but he wanted to work for common good and against the illegality. So to his father´s disappointment Mycroft choose to work in the Government instead of creating his career in business as his father had wished. His father didn´t understand and didn´t care about what his older son did there, and it was all right for Mycroft, because most of his work was classified as secret.

It was time to go back home to meet their Father, and have a nice conversation about his work, life, and everything else.

* * *

Sherlock was grateful that his dress hid his chastity belt, and the plug sank into his depths, for both accessories were a permanent part of him these days. The tight corset left his nipple piercing rings and the chain which connected them visible, and so of course were the initials above, highlighting his objectification as he played Moriarty´s violin to the criminals. He had to concentrate wholly to play correctly; otherwise Moriarty would let his “friends” use of him. He was sure that these people were unable to tell the difference between Bach’s violin concerto and the crap played on telly, but Moriarty would, and he was his real audience. The psychopath might let them do it anyway, if a gang rape happened to suit his plans. 

They were not friends. People like Moriarty didn´t have friends. These people were invited for a business negotiation, and their business was organized crime. Moriarty wanted to show off to them. Sherlock and his concert were part of Moriarty´s plan. Moriarty had presented Sherlock to them, saying how he was a son of an upper class family. He had managed to enslave a son of a wealthy family, who even had members in the government. He was an example of how Moriarty was capable of doing anything, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use his powers. The unchallengeable proof of the slave´s privileged past was his musical skills: an ordinary slave couldn´t play Bach or Stravinsky. They hardly knew how to hold a violin correctly. 

Sherlock did. He played to them vehemently, angrily, channeling his forbidden, hidden frustration into his music, hoping that Moriarty wouldn´t hear it. He waltzed around the long table, presenting everything to them and ignoring the libidinous gazes his audience laid on him. They took liberties with him and Moriarty let them. His owner used every opportunity to objectify him, to make him feel more used and worthless day after day. The fat man with heart-problems and high blood pressure, once divorced and married again to a young blond from East Europa, who led the East London drug business (nasty stuff like crack and crocodile) pinched Sherlock´s arse with his thick fingers, smiling slimily at him. The hard-eyed, tall woman dressed in grey jeans grabbed his crotch, her palm momentarily on his balls, feeling the hard tub, which was locked onto him. 

“The boy´s own instrument seems to be behind locks. James has always known how to protect his property,” she commented. She was the right person to say this- her speciality was organising luxury slave trafficking.

“Isn´t he something?” Moriarty smiled proudly. “So skilled and beautiful, a shy little thing. Imagine, dear colleagues, what he can do in bed.” 

“How much, James? I could put him to good use.”

“Always thinking about work! He is not for sale.”

When Sherlock finished, he waited for a while before Moriarty let him know that his part was over. Then he withdrew to the background, letting Moriarty continue in his negotiations with his criminal colleagues. 

Sherlock felt like he had run a marathon. He hadn´t been as heavily drugged lately because of the concert. Moriarty wanted the music to be flawless. It would have been difficult if the violinist was high, and kitten-like. So he was relatively clear-minded now. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He wanted to leave the violin behind, return to his own room, to undress from these women’s clothes and take a long, hot shower. He wanted to scrape his skin until it was reddened and tender. 

A momentary lapse of supervision happened after the concert, when all seemed to be occupied in their own duties, and he was on his own. He couldn´t see Chameleon, who was meant to keep an eye on him. The man who had taken photos had also disappeared. A criminal? No, he wasn´t. The photographer was spying there.

Sherlock smelled alcohol and cigarette´s smoke (he could kill for a cigarette, one more thing that was forbidden.) He inhaled the welcome smoke. He listened to the ruthless criminals´ shouts and laughter, observed the macabre party one more second, and turned away. Nobody watched him. A waitress waltzed around, carrying their trays and full bottles around the long table, covered by a white tablecloth. He disappeared into the corridor, where the black and white dressed waitresses and waiters came and went like giant magpies with their silver trays.

And suddenly everything fell silent and still, with only the echoes from the big dining room reminding him of the gathering. The rug under his high wheels wasn´t soft, but silenced his steps when he went on in the dimly lighted corridor. A single slender waitress passed him by, her pony tail tight and with a silver tray in hand, carrying coffee and cups.

She turned, but Sherlock had recognized her at once from her back. She said to him, “You should not be there.” Sherlock smiled at her like a fox. “Nobody needs to know. Show me the kitchen.”

“In this house, there are no secrets from Jim,” the girl warned him, but then she said, “Follow me.” And he did as she said.

She led him into a kitchen, which was an enormous, shining place full of steel surfaces, Venetian ceramic tiles, steel instruments, kettles and masses of food all over. It was all very impressive, but he wanted to find the back door, because there was always a back door in the kitchens like this one. She put her tray down and poured coffee into an egg shell thin porcelain cup. It might have been smuggled from the Forbidden City.

“Black, two sugars,” Molly said. The smell of coffee was overwhelming, a reminder from his past. The coffee was made just how he preferred it. What a coincidence. He wanted to laugh out loud, but instead he smirked. 

Molly held the china still in the air between them and Sherlock took it. He was in the empty kitchen with Molly, sipping his coffee and letting caffeine activate his nerves. Molly´s past and present was there like an open book for him to read. He was very good at observing people, revealing their secrets like his brother´s CCTV cameras revealed the secrets of streets.

“You don´t belong here, you worked in a laboratory, but you weren´t what Moriarty expected and now you are here. You are not a slave from birth. Everybody here thinks they know me, but you…” He drank his coffee. “You are invisible, they wouldn’t dream of knowing you. Quite an underestimation, I may say. “

“I was more a technician than a chemist. But yes. I did. How you..?”

“Irrelevant. You are allowed a certain amount of freedom. You called Moriarty ‘Jim’. You have coffee. You can even hand me coffee, although I am not allowed such a luxury. Why? Moriarty doesn´t consider you as a possible threat. You don´t matter to him, and still… You spy on me- it’s all right, all here spy on each other- but you… you don´t tell him. Moriarty had once promised you more to get you, you were flattered, but it was just words. You suspect him, and that is right, although you don´t have much choice. But why this?”

Molly stared at him, her eyes wide. 

“We are all slaves. The same. What Chameleon does does not help any of us. We should be more loyal to each other.” 

He followed Molly to the back rooms. He passed some doors which seemed to lead into storage. At the end of the corridor was a kitchen, from which servants brought food and drinks to Moriarty´s party. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Molly repeated.

“I am sure you won´t mind, if you don´t see.”

“I see you. The cook is in the wine cellar, but he’ll come back soon. He‘ll sound the alarm. Angelo won´t do any favours for you.”

“No, you don´t know I’m here. You are busy getting more fruit from storage, and you didn´t see me.” 

“I am not doing this.” Molly liked him, but she didn´t want to be flogged for him.  
Sherlock smiled at her, with his best puppy eyes. Molly blinked, and hesitated. “Fast then! I don´t want to get any trouble.”

“You won´t.”

“I don´t even know your real name. It can’t be Sherly, it’s a girl´s name.”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock answered, already on his way towards the personal rooms.

* * *

The back door had to be locked in a house like this. But when he pushed, it opened without resistance or making any noise… Fresh air, real stars in the sky. It was late. He hadn´t been out for ages. A back yard and a garden were in front of him, and in the distance he saw a wall. Fresh air was nice… Behind the wall was the outside world. London. The promise of a free life. This was his precious chance to run. He was about to step over the threshold, when a familiar voice froze him in his place. 

“Where are you thinking of going, toy?” Chameleon said, from right behind him. Chameleon laid his hand on his collar and clicked a leash to it, before he could to react. 

Chameleon. What he was thinking, when he let him imagine that it would be easy? Chameleon pulled the leash and laid his other hand on Sherlock´s arm, so close now that he could whisper.

“Fancied some fresh air, toy? Are you here for that? Or perhaps you are planning on fleeing? But that would be a careless plan! Have you any idea what the punishment would be?”

“I can imagine. But no, you are mistaken. I am here to get some fresh air. It is hot.” Sherlock tried to sound convincing. Suddenly it all made sense; why he had been left alone after the concert. Chameleon was meant to keep his eye on him, but he had pretended not to in order to lure Sherlock into venturing here, hoping that he would try to escape and he would have an advantage over him. 

“What if I pretend to believe you? I would put myself in a danger too, if I don´t report it. Reporting you is my duty. You should thank me properly, toy.” Sherlock winced at the belittling nickname. Chameleon licked his upper lip, as though he saw something delicious in front of him and wondered if the taste would be as good as the appearance. 

Chameleon was sure that the experience would be worth the risk. The image of Sherlock kneeling in front of him, his perfect feminine lips around his rock-hard penis, haunted him every time he saw the young slave. It had been a forbidden temptation. He was not allowed that. Until now… Chameleon was meant to keep an eye on Sherlock during the party, and to prepare him for their owner, so he could relax with his toy after the stressful evening. He noticed that Sherlock slipped into the kitchen corridor after that dull kitchen maid, Molly, when he thought that no one saw him. How careless! Here they were, and he was ready to take advantage of the young slave. This opportunity was too good to be wasted. Even Moriarty wouldn’t bother to check the storage footage, if he assured him that Sherlock was with him the whole time.

“What do you want?” Sherlock felt Chameleon´s breath on his cheek, so close to him. He almost leaned into Sherlock.

“You have such a pretty mouth. A girl´s mouth. I want it around my cock, sucking me off. Now.”

“It won´t ever happen.” Sherlock would have knocked the man out, freed himself from the leash and run away, but he didn´t think that he would be successful in his attempt. He could run from Chameleon, but he wouldn´t get out unnoticed any more. The moment was gone.

“Too bad. In that case, I’ll go at once and tell to our owner that you tried to escape and I stopped you in time, when you were going to climb the tree near the wall.” Chameleon pointed an oak. “I can tell you what he would do to you.”

“I’m so thrilled. Let me guess- he’ll kill me. A typical treatment for an escaped slave,” Sherlock said indifferently.

“No, toy. It would be too easy. No. He would kill your mind. Do you remember the coffin? Did it entertain you? It’s just for a training purpose. There are worse ways to punish a rebellious slave. I assure you, you don´t want to try them. We will make a short visit to the vegetable storage. Of course, there are cameras there too, yes, of course there are, but the cook knows how to turn them off. He owes me a favour. The footage would show only an empty storage unit, though we’ve been there having fun. Moriarty will never know.“ Chameleon´s reptilian smile was very close to Sherlock´s lips, and for a second he feared that Chameleon would demand that they kiss, but then the man tightened the leash and made Sherlock follow him towards the storage. Sherlock followed him mechanically; he didn´t even bother to pretend to resist when his collar squeezed around his throat. 

Chameleon closed the storage´s door and lit the dim lights. 

“I don´t want anything other than a well-done blowjob. There is no time to do anything else. Then we have to go. I have to make you ready for Moriarty.” He sounded nervous. It was natural- if they were discovered, it was him who would be in trouble this time. He made Sherlock kneel in front of him, and commanded him to unzip his trousers and undress him. Sherlock did as he told; he wanted this to be over as soon as possible. He knew that his real ordeal was coming. This was nothing. What was Chameleon? A pitiful slave, hardly older than him, jealous of his background. He had done worse things in this house than this. And now he had something to use against his tormentor. Moriarty was not a stupid man. He would believe Sherlock if he told him.

Chameleon´s cock popped out. It was half-hard, average in its length and thickness. Nothing special, as Sherlock had expected. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, resigning himself to complete his unpleasant task. Whatever he assured himself, he died a little every time he gave his services against his will.

As soon as he tasted Chameleon´s prick in his mouth, Chameleon started to whine like a cheap porn star. The man was a clown. To his surprise, Chameleon let him work without trying to control him. He seemed to be satisfied by a very tedious act. Sherlock wasn´t surprised when he realised that he was a pitiful, cruel man, without imagination. He opened his turquoise eyes to look straight at his old tormentor, whose face was grimacing from the pleasure Sherlock offered him. Chameleon had lost his power over Sherlock. Whatever he tried to do to him in the future, it would not have the same effect on him anymore that it once had. When Chameleon came into his throat with a groan, Sherlock did his best to swallow it all. He didn´t want Chameleon´s mess on his face. “It would ruin my makeup,” he thought bitterly.

* * *

The evening had been a success. Moriarty had demonstrated his power. He had observed his guests, and made it clear in his own subtle way that if they didn´t agree to co-operate with him, things would become much complicated for them very soon. He had stopped behind a guest, who seemed to be busy with his iPad. He had tapped the man´s shoulder, catching his attention. He had spotted the intruder, who had pretended to check his phone, pretending to text but taking photos with his camera and emailing them to someone instead. The strangest thing was, the man had been especially interested in his young slave. There were several photos from the meeting and his guests, among the photos also from his slave boy on the phone, when Moriarty´s expert investigated it. 

He would be questioned later, but it could wait for now. Instead, he ordered his man to take care of the spy. He would be more willing to talk after they have prepared the man. But Moriarty had worked enough for one night. He had received some agreement from his guests of future co-operation and mutual projects. His poor colleagues. They could not see what would do to them. This evening´s agreement was just the beginning of Moriarty´s plan to get the majority of London´s- no, England´s criminal activities under his control. At least, the most important part of them. The guests had left his home and the party was over. It was time to get some privacy and relax. 

He was a lucky man. His toy waited for him. To make his nights more enjoyable, to lighten his days´ hard work… To give him a challenge… Well, until his training was completely over. Then, of course, part of the fun would be gone. He liked the resistance, the way Sherlock shivered under his touch.

But until then, there was still work to do with him. Despite his ostensible submission, Moriarty could see that he was not yet broken, not at all. There was still the possibility of rebellion there, hidden behind those enigmatic eyes.

It would change permanently. He had time.

He opened the door and approached the bed, on which his plaything was tied neatly according to his orders, waiting impatiently for his master. His pretty girl. Moriarty stopped for a while to admire the view which he had seen so many times before, but could not ever get enough of. He loved every inch of his plaything, every angular curve, every subtle change of skin colour when he was touched by hands or objects, the desperation on his face he was unable to hide after Moriarty had played with him in the long hours of dark, silent night, when the only voices were his wails, sighs and even screams, and Moriarty´s mocking voice. Chameleon had prepared Sherlock well. The man deserved praise for his hard work. Maybe later... This night was reserved for something special. 

“How are you today? You really made an impression!” 

He approached his tied partner. Sherlock lay frogtied on his back, his writs chained to a choke collar. His clothes and corset had been stripped off, his makeup washed off. He looked open, vulnerable and wanton. Maybe he looked somewhat laughable in his pose, his large mouth shaped into a perfect ‘o’ with a spider gag, not letting him utter any word at all or use his teeth against Jim´s tender flesh. His mouth was reserved for another, more pleasurable use. The proud brat lay just how Jim wanted him. Sherlock´s cock lay limp on his belly, his balls still waiting to be handled, his hole still needing stretching. His owner´s hand landed on his crotch, like it had long ago in that medieval dungeon. Then his little toy had perhaps been too occupied to notice it, but now the light weight on his limp flesh alarmed his every nerve, before Jim started to smooth his thigh with his free hand.

“I only hoped that you wouldn´t have been so sluttish,” Jim remarked casually, as if Sherlock had done it on purpose. Sherlock couldn´t answer and Jim didn’t expect that. He didn´t want any genuine answers. He made the questions and gave the answers. Jim´s hand still pressed on Sherlock´s abdomen, his nails against the skin now, but then he let go. Jim started to take his clothes off slowly and lazily, letting Sherlock see his every movement until he finally stood naked by the bed. 

“Lovely baby,” Jim babbled, “What a dreadful business work is sometimes. But now, it’s just me and you. Our relaxing night in love.” 

Sherlock looked incredibly lovely in his complete helplessness, faintly flinching under Jim´s hand, preparing himself for the inevitable. He knew from experience that he could not ignore the pleasure Jim was going to offer him. Jim would watch how Sherlock would be in the mercy of his own body, of the touches to which Jim subjected him. The saliva drooling from his open mouth made him look like a man who could not completely control his body. A bit like he was crazy. Jim investigated his slave´s long tongue with interest. He put his little finger in his mouth, touching with the tip of his finger the peak of Sherlock´s tongue. Sherlock tried to get his tongue free, but Jim kept it tightly between his index finger and thumb, pressing his dirty nails into the red solid flesh. His face was an inch away from Sherlock´s now. He took every subtle change of Sherlock´s face in, as he pinned the tied man against the mattress. Sherlock could hardly breathe when Jim´s sharp elbow pressed against his chest. The tangy scent of Jim´s aftershave filled his nostrils.

“Let´s kiss, Sherly.” 

Sherlock grimaced in disgust. Jim was amused; he let Sherlock´s tongue go, but then he bowed again to connect his mouth to Sherlock´s, mimicking a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as he locked his lips against Sherlock´s own and pushed his snakelike tongue in. Its tip touched Sherlock’s tongue and licked it, his dark eyes like bottomless wells so close to him, and Sherlock held his breath. He tasted what Jim had just eaten during the dinner, and breathed Jim´s exhalation in. He couldn´t… He had to… It was almost better to be heavily drugged, when his mind was too fogged to protest, than clear-minded, forced against his will to fulfil his owner´s fantasies. Jims´ other hand tugged the nipple chain, stretching the sensitive area of his chest, and Jim felt Sherlock´s tongue shivering. Jim noticed with satisfaction that Sherlock´s cock was now half-hard, as their tongues fucked each other. Jim knew that Sherlock loathed his body´s natural reaction, and that knowledge only increased his good mood. Sherlock was a lost cause.

But enough of that. 

Next Moriarty wanted to investigate Sherlock´s rosy, round entrance, which Chameleon had cleaned with an enema according to Moriarty´s instructions. Sherlock´s hole still looked virginal, although it wasn´t technically any more. Jim looked at it as the muscle squeezed around his curious index finger. He couldn´t resist any longer. He pushed his tongue out, and finally, finally Jim tasted Sherlock´s pink, cleaned flesh. It snaked around the hole before it found its way towards the depths. The sensation of Jim´s flexible tongue was so unexpected, soft and irresistible, that Sherlock´s half-hard cock responded without hesitation, reaching its full length. Jim´s hands kept his cheeks on place, his impudent tongue teasing Sherlock´s flesh. The young man enjoyed it, he couldn´t deny it, and he hated himself for that, but Jim was there working his miracles and his body eagerly responded. His body was a whore. He became so very tired of trying to keep his mind intact, when half of the time he was hardly conscious and the rest of the time he was the object of constant stimulation and humiliation. When he was alone, his drugged mind and locked flesh only waited for Jim´s next visit. 

More, deeper… there.

The tongue was inside his entrance. To his shame, he wanted it to stay there, to continue its torturously sweet teasing. He closed his eyes and sank into the sensation.

Then Jim stopped, withdrew and straightened himself. Sherlock´s disappointment was mingled with relief. To make use of the short break, he tried to will his cock back to its flaccid state. 

But the break was only temporary. He felt Jim´s tongue again on his skin.

The soft tongue now wandered on his balls, licking from down to up on his hard organ. Sherlock pressed his back against a pillow; if Jim continued like that, it would be too much. He didn´t want this… but it wasn´t ever about what he wanted, and Sherlock should have learned that by now.

“Your tight hole is begging for my prick, but tonight is not the time! Tonight I want to feel your mouth. I want you to imagine my cock is a big, sweet and irresistible lollipop. Lick it like it’s the best candy in the world,” Jim babbled.

“Nnnngggghh.” 

“I know, my girl. Always impatient! Let´s start,” Moriarty interrupted.

Jim lay down on Sherlock, aiming his hard organ into Sherlock´s mouth. It slid in easily. 

“Take it in, take it all! So good, my girl! Soooo good.” Sherlock couldn´t do anything other than swallow the criminal´s length when Jim his tied body like that. First the gland, then the shaft went in, and then Jim´s cock tugged against his gag reflex. It was difficult to do without feeling sick, but he managed. He almost yelped, if it was possible, when he felt Jim´s mouth on his erection. Jim lay on him now, his cock fucking Sherlock´s throat as he sucked Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock was in tears.

He thought at that moment (it was barely a proper thought; he was lost for words and couldn’t verbalise it) that he was beaten, as Jim´s tongue licked his crack and the pressure in his crotch built, and he had to give up and let it happen. His hips started to buck uncontrollably before he came. He filled Jim´s mouth; his come pulsed into Jim´s throat. Jim came soon after that, and Sherlock swallowed Jim´s bittersweet semen. 

__

The lights went off and darkness fell. Jim climbed into the enormous bed next to Sherlock, naked, but showered. The room was too hot. Sherlock wanted a shower too. He desperately needed to clean Jim´s smell and sweat from his skin, but he was not allowed. The psychopath enjoyed smelling himself on his slave´s skin, leaving marks of his intrusion on and in his body. 

Jim´s arm curled around Sherlock´s chest, the criminal´s shorter legs tangled with his long limbs. He was too aware of Jim´s body intimately pressed against him. He could hardly sleep, but he couldn´t get away either. Jim cuddled him like his personal teddy bear. He could have strangled the man, if his hands weren´t chained to the cursed collar, which Jim had left around his throat. He suppressed the temptation to push Moriarty out of the bed onto the floor. It would not end well, and not give him any real advantage. He had to play along and wait for a better opportunity. 

He felt like he was lying in the coffin again, so suffocating were the heated room, the thick darkness around them, the soft bed clothes, the restraints, and Jim´s warm body next to him.

* * *

Next morning, Moriarty gave him a new gift. He wanted Sherlock dressed in it at once. He couldn´t wait for seeing it on Sherlock.

Moriarty tilted his head as he tried to tighten the brand new corset- a stunning creation of silk and metal pieces, black, purple and crimson- which imprisoned his slave´s chest and lungs more mercilessly than his previous corsets. It made Sherlock’s chest ache with the lack of oxygen, pressing his masculine body in its iron grip. He thought that the thing would break his ribs if Moriarty tightened it any more. Sherlock´s waist was too wide for Moriarty´s likening, despite the man´s naturally lean body and Moriarty´s special low-caloric diet developed for his concubines to keep them skinny.

He had a man´s measurements, however thin Moriarty had managed to reduce his waist so far. But Moriarty had studied Victorian fashion and knew a solution to this distracting problem.  
A new chastity belt was also a part of the gift: the temporary freedom of Sherlock´s cock was gone. It was painfully tiny this time, his limp organ hardly managed fit in, and there was a hole for his cockhead when he needed relief. The uncomfortable plastic thing was impossible to ignore.

As if thinking aloud about his slave´s physical problem, Moriarty started to talk.  
“Did your mother ever read you bedtime stories, when you were a child? Do you remember Cinderella?”

Sherlock winced at Moriarty´s indifferent mentioning of his mother, like a still raw wound, but he knew better now than to show it outwardly. 

“A young, pretty girl, who was enslaved by her stepmother and her two ugly daughters- or at least, so we have been told. A handsome prince looked for the mysteriously vanished girl and a glass shoe was the only clue to solve the case of the vanishing bride. The girl who had small enough feet to fit into the tiny glass shoe would get the prince. He looked for her everywhere without results. He would have needed a brilliant detective! Finally he arrived at the house of Cinderella. Her home was turned into her prison. Both of her sisters had too large feet to fit into the fragile glass shoe. So their mother decided to modify their feet: she cut off parts of their feet with her scissors. Toes from her younger daughter, a heel from her older one… The only thing that revealed the surgery to the prince was the blood filling the glass shoe. These girls didn´t get their princes, because the surgery was badly-done.” Moriarty had finished the dressing process, and pressed Sherlock´s body against him, talking into his ear. Sherlock felt Moriarty´s erection against his back.

“Their mother used cosmetic surgery on her big-footed daughters. Who knows, what if these girls weren´t girls at all? What if Cinderella had brothers, with their big feet and unfeminine features? They wanted to become wives for a rich and handsome prince. What do you learn from the story?”

“I wonder,” Sherlock confessed, although the allegory was crystal clear.

“Nature is imperfect. We have means to make it into perfection, to make a person fit into a glass shoe or a corset. It is my duty, and your duty is to be grateful and to say yes to your Master. Your meaning of life is to say yes to me.”

He tried to get his fingers around Sherlock´s waist, measuring his body with his hands.  
“It is time to call a doctor, dear.”

“I am not sick, Master,” Sherlock protested. He hated hospitals and doctors. 

“Yes, you are, if I say so. You need an examination. You are imperfect for me. It is a flaw, but it can be quite easily repaired with a sharp knife. I know a decent hospital, which is specialized to repair the mistakes of Mother Nature. It is safe and clean. You will like the place, love,” Moriarty almost purred. 

“What do you say, Sherly?” Moriarty asked conversationally, as if his opinion really mattered. 

“Piss off!” Sherlock hissed.

“Oh dear, that temper, my dear! You’re lucky today, because I am in an excellent mood. Otherwise I would let Chameleon whip you. But maybe I will save it for another day.”

The laces tightened around his rib cakes; the bones just under his skin caged his frightened lungs. He tried to imagine if it would be easier to breathe without so many bones supporting his chest, if it would be easier to continue on in his meaningless, hollow existence. Moriarty´s hand was now on his neck, his fingers around his throat like an octopus’ tentacles.

“I am sorry, my Master,” he managed, before the fingers would close off his air.

“That sounds so much better, my dear.”

He needed his dose. He hadn´t realised how badly he needed it. He might get one afterwards, if he played pliantly now. 

“It is not necessary,” he tried again. “What you are planning, my Master. It is not necessary,” he assured Moriarty quietly.

“Of course it is. I am helping you to become what you are meant to be. It is my duty as your loving husband. Your duty is to comply and be grateful. Don´t you understand yet? For a wonder boy, you are incredibly slow sometimes!”

He was sleepy. He shivered. He wanted his drug. He was tired of being awake, sometimes even of being alive. He had a headache. There was no use for his brilliance. His brain was rotting. He was going to a hospital? All right then. To see a doctor? Whatever. But now he wanted to return to his room, to get his short, illusory moment of privacy. But Moriarty had finally finished with the laces, tying them with a perfect bow. His idle hand wandered down to his white cheeks, a finger circling his entrance, and there was no way to escape. Fighting against him was useless. He sighed and spread his legs, bowed onto the bed under Moriarty´s hand, crouching and resting his weight on his arms.

No, not this again. 

Moriarty was in no hurry this morning. 

He needed his dose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and hopefully enjoying the story.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> Yes, in the next chapter it is finally John Watson´s turn!
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> I add one more note about my mutilation-tag, because it seems to worry some readers, which is completely understandable. I would be worried too. I am not going to damage Sherlock once and for all. I love him too much to harm him permanently. Moriarty may disagree, but I won´t let him. ;) I hope, that nobody would not cease to follow my story because of that. I am trying to keep this thing in minimum. Thank you for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I am really sorry for an unforgivable long hiatus. Things happened. I am trying to get my next chapter sooner ready for publishing!
> 
> Especially I want thank you my new betas for helping me to get this chapter finished. Thank you Anarfea, gowerstreet and Prurient_curiosity for your valuable help and advices. Without you this chapter would never see the light of day!
> 
> Thank you for your understanding and patience.  
> I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> * * *

_It had once been a luxury private hospital near the Central City, but these days it was old-fashioned, confined and labyrinthine. After it was divided into two sections: section A for slaves (secure, CCTVs, closed unbreakable windows, rooms were locked outside, usually heavy medication for patients, chains and restrains to make sure, that they wouldn't try to escape. For their own safety, as the personnel told to them, if they bothered to talk at them at all.). Section B for educational purposes for medical students: laboratories, lecture rooms and smaller research rooms for students and a bit bigger for their teachers who often also worked in the section A._

Dr John Watson was comforted his patient, a sobbing middle-aged slave with heart problems. At least he was doing his best. Her condition was serious, although treatable, but her owner, a very impressive and persuasive Madame Wentswoth wanted to get rid of her aging slave, who couldn't perform her tasks as effectively as before because of her illness, and buy younger and more capable slave to do her housework. Pensions didn´t exist for aged or incapable slaves. Nobody wanted to keep a slave who was unable to perform his or her duties properly or who needed expensive care. It was also illegal to abandon a useless slave on the streets; they could disturb people and be even a danger in citizens. Living homeless on the streets was the privilege reserved for free people. The unpleasant truth was that most slaves died prematurely. Most of them died because of hard work, bad treatment and malnutrition. These were listed as a natural cause of death. Some were simply killed. Euthanasia was the legal and popular solution. Madame Wentswoth wanted to do her duty towards her ill servant as neatly and painlessly as possible. She had taken her ill slave to hospital to have her put down professionally. That was what they did to incurable animals, so why not to slaves as well?

The poor woman was crying because she didn't want to die. John Watson was not going to let her, but he could do only little for that. He had given her free medication, getting himself in trouble, if someone reported upward, because her owner didn't want to pay for the cure, but she would have needed an operation for which Madame Wentswoth refused to pay. She thought that her older slave, who had served in the house already when Mme Woodlice was a teenager, deserved to be put down. John couldn't treat the slave for free.

A door swung open without warning. John lifted his gaze from his patient to a door to see who disturbed him in this intimate moment. But when he saw who stepped in, he suppressed his anger.

Doctor Dewberry, the leader of Barts hospital and its main surgeon, stepped in unceremoniously, not bothering to give time for John´s patient to cover herself. He didn´t regard her as a person worth of dignity and privacy, but more of a kind of furniture. John wanted to tell him that he did not appreciate being interrupted in the middle of a patient appointment. Or that all the patients needed privacy. But of course he didn`t. Some things were better left unsaid to your boss.

Dr Dewberry could be a ladies` man when he wanted to. He was tall with chocolate-brown eyes and a calming appearance. His golden hair had started to turn silver, which made him look angelic. He talked sweetly for the owners, especially for women like Madame Woodlice, and his smile was wide and warm for them. But among his personal and slave patients he had a different reputation. Beneath the mask of medical demi-god lured an ambitious and merciless man.

“John, I need you to check a patient for me. I have an urgent surgery ahead and I don't have time to take care of everything by myself. The case is routine, but it is essential that we keep the owner happy. He is a very important client. Be careful.” Doctor Stephen Dewberry advised his younger colleague.

When John Watson was taken as a younger surgeon into Bartholomew´s Private Hospital, he noticed very quickly, that his real job was being a personal assistant of Doctor Dewberry rather than working as an independent doctor. But everybody lived under surveillance. He had grown used to it during his whole life: It was everywhere: in the school, in the army, so it was inside the old and respected Bartholomew´s hospital. There was an alternative for euthanasia: using them as laboratory rats for educational purposes for students to practise with medication, surgery, autopsy, all kind of experiments. Students could practise with ill and disable slaves as they learned how to become doctors. Sometimes their test subjects happened to get better (but often they did not).

The main surgeon doctor Stephen Dewberry, whó was also the director of the hospital, operated only the most important and most difficult cases, leaving the more routine procedure to his colleagues. Patient´s examination and preparation for the operation made some of the younger doctors, when doctor Dewberry had no time to do it personally.

“Yes, sir.” Before he turned to leave, Dr Dewberry gave him the last instructions.

“Be careful! His owner, Mr Moriarty, is a very important client, who can be very demanding, and nothing should be allowed to go wrong. Mr Moriarty told me that he is dangerous. A liar and a troublemaker. He sounds a bad choice as a concubine, but what I am to judge another man´s preferences? You should not listen him or start a conversation with him, just do your duties and leave. Report to me personally if something out of ordinary happens.Do you understand?”

“…Yes. I think, that I can manage with him Sir.” John assured his superior.

“I count on that, Watson, because of your military background. That is exactly the reason why I hired you.” Doctor Dewberry assured him, when he offered him the manila file of his newest patient.

 

* * *

 

There was a guard by the examination room. An armed man was not an unusual sight in this hospital, but no matter how much John Watson tried, he never got used to it. A hospital should be a place to heal and help patients, to make them feel that they were safe and they would be taken care of. The presence of guards and locked rooms with bulletproof windows made the place resemble more of a prison

Usually the slaves were too suppressed to try to attack or escape. The hospital had its own security men, but sometimes the clients sent their own guards with their slave, as seemed to be the case this time. He nodded to the guard, who looked more like a bored young man waiting for a coffee break than an alarmed and armed security man ready for action. But then appearances could mislead. The guard asked him, why he was there, and then, satisfied with the answer he got, he knocked on the door three times. Somebody inside the room opened a door and John stepped in.

John Watson stepped over the threshold. There were two men in the room watching his entry. The one who opened the room was stern, military type, with. a taser hanging at his belt. He nodded to John shortly to address his presence. John´s patient sat on the edge of an examination table, with only a hospital gown to cover his nakedness. John noticed a black collar around his throat to indicate he was owned and that his hands were tied tightly back, his legs were restrained by a hobbler to make even walking a challenge. Running would be out of the question. His long curls almost hid his face. John didn´t like to see a patient treated like this, however much he had tried to adjust. It felt so wrong, inhumane and unnecessary. But he had been told about this young man; his training was still incomplete and he could be dangerous. It usually meant that he had not yet be beaten into total submission. The angle of his head revealed that; he kept it proudly up, looking straight at John. Slaves usually bowed their head down in submission and avoided direct eye contact without noticing it.

John Watson was not going to work in the presence of an armed guard.

“Could you give me some peace to do my work?” He asked from the man, who just stared at him blankly without giving him any answer.

“Right. I see. How about this: you are dismissed. Go outside and leave us alone. Now.”

Finally the guard reacted, shifted his leg. “I have my orders, doctor.”

“I am the only one giving orders in this room. I need privacy to do my work properly. This man is going nowhere. You can stay right outside the door. I can shout if he breaks free and attacks to me. Have you understood?”

The guard hesitated, he was going to object, but then he thought twice. He left the room, muttering something about giving him five minutes. John sighed with relief and turned now his full attention on his patient.  
The man was in his twenties. He was alarmingly thin. The complexion of his skin was chalky white as if he had not seen a daylight for a year. It wasn`t a mystery to John, why his dark brown, curly hair had been grown that long, although his beard was carefully shaven, or why his fingernails were long and manicured. He had seen it before; some owners liked their male slaves to look female. The most captivating detail was his eyes, alien in their shape and their colour impossible to capture, their gaze piercing. There was no hate or fear or what was the worse: the empty stare, an inevitable sign of the total loss of one´s personality. John Watson suddenly felt under scrutiny. This was something new. He shifted his leg and cleared his throat.

John always read his patients´ files beforehand to learn more about them. This file didn´t reveal much about this young man. There was no known medical history, no information about his family. He learnt only the reason why he was here: to start a surgery process known as a Transformation. It didn't simplify his task to check him in for an unnecessary operation. John could see the familiar signs of mistreatment and abuse. The patient´s condition was hardly optimal for such a big operation, that much John could tell just by looking at him.

“Hello. My name is John Watson. I am here to perform a medical examination on you. It won't take long and I won't hurt you. It is for your own good.”

That was what he always said, talking to his patient, who he was and what he was going to do to them. He knew that it might sound hollow, but it was his effort to calm them, to tell them that they were safe with him. That he saw them as people who had a right to know what he was going to do. He knew doctors who didn't bother speak a word to their slave patients besides giving them orders during their examination as if they wouldn't be able to understand a normal, friendly conversation. Even animals got better treatment than these people; vets talked to their pet patients.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don´t want you to touch me! Why do you lie? If you don't want to hurt me, then why do you lie?”

John Watson blinked, confused. The slave`s unexpected outburst surprised him. The slave was in no position to tell him to stop and still he did that. Slaves who have lived in slavery their whole life, couldn't even to say “no”.

“I am not lying - ”

“Right. Maybe semi-truths then,” the slave interrupted him. John blinked. That was new. “You seem to believe in your own words. My owner doesn't suddenly want to know if I get a proper amount of vitamins or if the last beating by his minions might have caused some permanent damage. Nope. I am here because I have two ribs too much for his liking. So they can go. And I should be grateful for that. I would not need them, they are two useless twigs. I can lie on my back and let my owner to shag me whenever he wants without them. Or any other bones. Do you know, doctor, that not long ago all a slave´s bones could have been broken just for fun? I would guess that they would not teach such a thing in medical school, or would they? I hope that you tell the truth – _Doctor_ Watson.”

“I do what I can. If you let me to check you now, I could help you to get proper treatment during the time you spend here. I can help you…”

“Hospitals and doctors are all the same. You cannot help me as much as you would like to believe. It must be frustrating. You are really trying to be a good doctor amongst all these butchers who don't give a flying fuck for their patients. Most of them don't even try to hide behind the mask of care. Owners seldom demand decent treatment of their … property, don't you think, doctor?”

Doctor Watson wasn't sure if the slave really waited for an answer. The tone and words surprised him. He wasn't used to hearing a slave talking like that to a citizen, or watching him like that, observing and evaluating. It was like their roles had been turned upside down. The owners usually needed even less than that to beat their slave into half death. And after they bring them to us for repair.

“This must be frustrating to you, doing this parody of doctor work. You graduated so young, then you took all your idealism with you, went and to defend king and country and now you have ended here in this rat hole to help owners to transform their slaves instead of the real healing.”

“Hm. Sorry?”

“You are in the wrong place.”

“I don´t think so. And you are hardly in any position to tell me that.” The slave`s arrogance irritated John. Just a bit, but enough. The slave had it coming. From miles.

“Yes, I am and I can. I can tell it about your body language, and how you treat me and talk to me. You don´t handle me like I were like a piece of furniture. Why would a doctor end up in a slave hospital? In some cases because he is a sadist. But you are not. I see how you treated me, ordered the guard off, and how you wanted to release me. Or because he is desperate; he has low self-esteem. Or he is an idealist like the doctors who volunteer join the army. You have done both. No man in his right mind would volunteer to the army or go to a slave hospital to do some good. There is the pattern. You went into the war almost straight from medical school and after the war ended, it wasn't a relief to you. You missed the war so much that you went into another one soon after the peace has settled. But you...ah...you wounded and was sent to home against your wishes. It is not in your leg...somewhere else.” 

“Anyway you didn't adjust to ordinary life very well after your wars, and here you found yourself ´helping´ the pariahs of your society: the slaves.But instead of doing real doctor work for your patients, you help other doctors perform operations which they don't need and which are mostly harmful, or to use them as their lab rats, of course in the name of science. You haven't been here long and you are already getting enough.” But I don't recommend you to return to your therapist. She won`t help you any more than these straps make me compliant.” Sherlock paused.

“How...how do you know that I have a therapist?”

“Most of wounded veterans have. And mostly they are women.”

“’That is…”started John.

“Yes?”

“That is extravagantly said.” John finished. He wanted to defend his decisions, how much he himself doubted them. But that this unknown slave dared to say such things.... John should have reported omit Sherlock´s cheeky talks, but for some reason Sherlock trusted that John would not do that. What Sherlock said to him here would be secret.

“You are not a slave from your birth. You cannot be. I have never heard a slave speaking like you,” John admitted. 

_The corners of Sherlock´s mouth twisted up just a little at the sides like John had just complimented him. This was the closest thing to praise he had ever heard._

The file stated that the slave`s name was Sherly. It was the name his owner had given him. John Watson was meant to use this name also if he wanted to address him, but it was clear that it was not his real one. He would have preferred to address him by his real name. It would have been impertinent to ask him what his name used to be. He didn't know how to address his patient.

But John also read distrust from those amazing green-blue eyes. Suddenly he knew what to do next.

“I don't like these restraints. I don´t think that you need them.” John told him simply and released his wrists and elbows from leather straps, which prevented the circulation and made his hands numb, his fingers feeling like some foreign objects. Sherlock´s eyes widened when he got his arms free, and he put them carefully on his lap like he could lose them if he didn´t keep his eye on them.

He watched the young doctor keenly without saying a word.

“I would like to release you from your leg restraints also, but I can't do it. Neither can I move your collar as much as I would like to. It looks to be a bit too tight,” John continued.

It was. Everything on him was meant to remind him of what he was, or, more truthfully, to what he was supposed to be, to keep him in check, to prevent him from dreaming of escaping. His crotch and back were sore from the chastity belt. But to get his hands free after hours of being restrained in the humiliating position was more than he had expected. His hands started to tingle, and he rubbed them to ease the sensation.

Sherlock evaluated John. He liked what he saw. This small man deserved a reward. He didn't have anything else to offer than his real name and that was what he gave.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.” John said, and Sherlock let out a crooked smile. It was the first time in his adult life that he had been called that. Maybe the last time, too. A slave didn´t have surnames. It was - again - the privilege of the free.

John gently touched injured skin of his wrists. Then he took an antiseptic cream and massaged it cautiously on the welts. He had been tied for at least a day like that.

“I didn't want to come here.” Sherlock said quietly, more like to himself than to the doctor. “I hate hospitals and doctors. He made me. He tied me to make me to compliant.”

“I haven´t heard about a slave who objects his owner.” John smiled.

“I am not ordinary,” Sherlock assured John who could very easily believe him.

“This should help.” John finished with cream. Next I would like to take off the gown, so that I could check you properly. May I continue?”

Sherlock nodded. “Go on. Do what you are paid for.”

This slave gave him permission to continue. Offering him the illusion of having the power to say `yes` or `no` did the trick, and the arrogant patient had said `yes`. Maybe this was the first time that someone bothered to ask his mind? John knew that he could have gotten his work done without the patient's cooperation, he could even call more personnel to keep him at bay during the examination. But he didn't want to let the situation devolve to that. It was not his way.

John removed the hospital gown. What he saw beneath it did not shock him anymore. He could tell even after a superficial look that his patient suffered from the usual signs of maltreatment: being underfed and dehydrated, marks of constantly being burned, beaten and flogged: the usual ways to punish a stubborn slave. And this slave had a reputation of being difficult. Pierced nipples, the round burn scars on his stomach. Fresh and older whip marks crossed on his back and the most startling scars were carved by a sharp instrument, likely a scalpel on his flesh. On his chest, right above his heart, John found the initials of J.M., his owner´s signature. The owner wanted clearly to leave memories on his property`s skin.

The most awkward thing John found on Sherlock was the chastity belt with a tiny tube reserved for penis. He already guessed that it had to be more a permanent part of the slave than an occasional accessory.

“This must be uncomfortable.” John commented.

“To put it mildly.”

“These things should not be on for long periods. They can cause health problems.” John added.

“As if my owner cares about such trivialities. Although he takes it away now and then. He wants to see my body to react what he does to me.“

On his thighs were wounds cut by a sharp instrument, likely a scalpel again. 

“That is nothing. My owner, he gets easily bored, and he tries to find something new to amuse himself. He told me….he told me that because I like chemistry so much I would be interested in trying chemicals myself. That is why: drugs, acid burns, wounds soaked with different chemical substances. Then he asked me how it feels.” Sherlock explained, when he noticed John´s expression. All injuries were superficial, but being subjected to such a treatment over and over again would have some effect to the target´s psyche too.

John needed to check for injuries before he started his basic health check. As if there were anything ordinary about checking the condition of people whose lives consisted mostly of neglect and abuse from day to day.

He listened to the slave`s heart steadily beating as he should to track possible heart problems, which would cause problems during the operation. His reflexes were fine. He was not in good condition, but John couldn't find anything so fatal, that he could cancel the operation. He almost wished that he could.

It was time to start. He put his hand on the slave´s cold skin, felt his bones beneath it, but hardly any flesh. The slave was so thin .

John grabbed at his wrist, lifting his arm as was needed to see the damage to the otherwise perfectly flawless skin. Sherlock knew what the doctor could read from the tiny spots on his skin: the progressive destruction. John frowned and Sherlock snorted at his gesture.

“Becoming an addict wasn't my intention. They didn´t ask my permission when they started to inject drugs to me.”

“How long?” John asked.

“I am not sure. I haven't been allowed to carry such luxuries as a watch.”

“I am sure, that as a clever man you have an idea.”

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled.

“Then?” John demanded stubbornly. He had to hear it, although he already had an idea about how long.

“A year. More or less. But you know, they don't really give me much chance to refuse. At least not at the beginning.” Sherlock said blankly, without embarrassment or regret. It was all the same for a slave, what would kill him.

“I can believe it.” John admitted. “Can you tell what they have given to you?”

“I am sure about cocaine, but it is for reward. The other stuff is for punishment or fun. Fun for them, not to me, but I think you can understand that. Or to maim my brain.” Sherlock added bitterly.

John knew too well that drugs and even medicines, especially psych pills, were used to break slaves and keep them in control, but he hated to witness it with his own eyes. 

Sherlock said matter of factly: “Sometimes I ask for it. I need it. He makes me do things for it and then I get my reward.”

John could suddenly understand that, as much as his medical side disapproved it. The desire to escape by any means available.

John wanted to change the topic.

“Do you smoke?”

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. ”Do you imagine that slaves are allowed for such a luxury? Are you so ignorant? No, I don´t smoke, not any more.”

“So drugs are allowed, but no cigarettes?”

“Yes. It is the funny logic of slave owners. Drugs keep a man more effectively in control.”

John explained to him what he was doing. He always did so, when he yet healed his free patients and now, when his patients were slaves.

This was even more important with slaves, when they were otherwise treated like crap. So John went on telling him what was happening, and that he was not going to hurt him:

“I am checking your eyes.”

“This is for your reflexes.”

“I will take blood tests from you.”

Sherlock snorted: “Don't fuss over me. You are not my mother.” John couldn't help smiling again.

He listened to the slave´s heart steady beating as he should to track possible heart problems, which would cause problems during the operation. His reflexes were fine. He was not in good condition, but nothing so fatal John couldn't find, that he could cancel the operation. He almost wished, that he could.

Finally, “I am taking your pulse.”

The doctor´s hands were warm in the right way and moved gently on his skin. He didn't push, pinch, slap or tease, which would hurt or arouse him against his will, but just with all the world´s kindness he didn't know existed beside his mother´s touch. Nobody had touched him like that, at least not in the very long time. He closed his eyes with the hungry of feeling a human touch. Sherlock knew that his reaction was wrong. John Watson was doing his job as he had done so countless times before him, touching people with his warm, skilful hands. He was not an exception. He should know better than to let this professional gentleness to affect him so profoundly. He should really have learnt already. There was a price for every good moment without exceptions. He was losing in the world where some people were owned by some others. 

John Watson sensed Sherlock´s longing reaction to his touch. He decided to continue as he had meant to and took his pulse. The world started to turn again on its dull predictable orbit and Dr Watson continued to examine his patient.

Next he checked the blood pressure. Low.

“Do you know why you are here?” John asked cautiously.

“My owner has not kept me in the dark with this matter.” Even without Moriarty´s photos, Sherlock had an idea about what the transformation meant.

Moriarty had showed him photos, which were taken of his last bed slave before Sherlock. He had been called Victoria, so Sherlock had assumed,that his real name had been Victor. Victor who? He didn't know. In the photo before the transformation Sherlock saw a skinny young man, whose light brown hair was long but not curly. In the last photo the person had undeniably female features, even tiny breasts. Even his crotch. Sherlock´s thought stopped on the memory of Victoria´s crotch. What he saw, and more importantly, what he didn´t see. Soon after the last photo Victoria/Victor had suffered complications after one futile operation too much and had died. Moriarty didn´t pay much attention to his concubine, whom he had exhausted until there had been nothing more left to use of his body or mind, and when he was done he already had a new, more alluring target in his mind.

Sherlock Holmes.

He had only practised with Victor, to be ready for Sherlock.

Sherlock had understood what Moriarty had planned for him after seeing this abused and mutilated young man in these photos. And now the process was starting with him.

“Had you something to add?” John´s voice started him from his thoughts.

“No.”

John was almost done, when someone knocked impatiently on the door. Sherlock´s escort was becoming impatient behind a closed door.

“A minute! I am almost ready!” John shouted, but the door opened and a new man stepped into the examination room without offering an apology or bothering to say hello. The newcomer smirked at the men in the room, although John missed the reason of his amusement. A scar on his forehead gave away his real status, although he acted like a free man.

“I hope that you are ready with Sherly. It is time to show him his room.”

“I am ready.”

The two other guards followed behind a young man of Sherlock`s age, a slave`s tattoo on his forehead. The guards grabbed Sherlock, forced his hands again back and tied them before they left the room, escorting him between them, almost carrying him away, not letting him a chance to take a false step.

John Watson stayed last in a now-empty room in his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was lying on his back, prone, his arms and ankles tied by soft restrains to the bed´s edges on his hospital bed. It was a private room, naturally. Moriarty didn't want his favourite toy to be in touch with unpredictable factors, which were also known as people. It was risky enough to let him go to the hospital, but at least he could minimise his contacts with other people there to selected personnel.

“Because you have such an unruly mind, I will give you something to do. But I predict that you won't feel your waiting long.” Chameleon promised. ”Mr Moriarty´s order!”

And when Sherlock turned his head to Chameleon´s direction, he saw a needle in his hand. He didn't want to be drugged here, not by Chameleon´s selective drugs, but he was already restrained into his bed and he couldn't stop his enemy from pushing a needle into his arm and so he tried to relax his muscle to avoid further damage. It was pointless to struggle against the inevitable.

“Sweet dreams, toy!” Chameleon wished heartily, when he tapped the thin arm´s skin a couple of time, preparing it before he pushed the needle home.

Sherlock laid still and waited. The worst thing was, he was tied down. Chameleon´s favourite solution was too familiar to him, but despite that it always managed to paralyse his mind with terror and the effect was worse when he was restrained. Chameleon sat in the room in the corner like an audience waiting for the show to begin, not wanting to miss any of the other man's reactions to his favorite mixture. Sherlock tried to anchor his mind to some solid point on the ceiling above him to prevent the hallucinations taking over his mind, but up there was nothing to concentrate on besides the dirty grey ceiling and it was not enough to stop hallucinations.

First he didn´t notice that anything was off. But then there was something in the corner of his eyes, big, black and formless. He tried to look at it, but it always slipped to the corner of his sight. He couldn't see it properly, however hard he tried. Then the black fog grow bigger; it filled the room and swallowed all the light until there was none; he couldn't see the details of this boring hospital room or Chameleon, who surely was still sitting in the corner. The fog filled his nostrils and his ears, at least so he felt. It was so thick the space from a Black Hole had escaped to invade the earth and started its gloomy triumph in this tiny hospital room.

This is just unreal, he reminded himself sternly. These all are creations of his mind. But the knowledge didn't make it go away. It was nothing near a natural night; the blackness was absolute. The ghosts formed from the ink of the blackest holes from the universe were his old familiar nightmare created by Moriarty´s own cocktail. 

He was standing now (impossible! He couldn´t stand) and saw a form in front of him: it stood with its back to him so he couldn't see who it was before it started to turn very slowly and suddenly he didn't want to know. But it continued to turn to face him. He couldn't even blink when he saw its face and recognized himself. He watched at himself (he didn't even wonder how he could see anything in the darkness) like the reflection of a mirror and he saw himself as female. A perfect female version of himself stood naked after the Transformation process. It had happened against his will; it was wrong, although not illegal. If he was her, then who was watching her/him? A single word: mutilation echoed like a horrified promise in his ears and somehow he understood and he saw himself as he would be in the future as he had seen Victoria/Victor in photos before and after the Transformation process. He tried to cover his face with his hands to push his future self away from his sight, but he couldn't do it. And he remembered that he was restrained. But no, he wasn´t any more. But still he couldn't raise his hands to cover his face. He couldn't grasp or push or run ever again. His legs and arms had been cut off without his notice.

And he screamed alone to the darkness which would be his home from hereafter. His female doppelganger came nearer and touched his cheek with her eloquent, long fingers, which were so much like his, telling him: “Now I shall be your hands and legs, eyes and mouth and genitals. We shall be one.” And to his ultimate horror. The doppelganger, who was more a ghost than a person of flesh-and-blood, rounded her arms around his torso to embrace his broken body and lifted him up to carry him somewhere and her face was suddenly Moriarty´s. When he saw that and felt Moriarty´s warm breath on him, he writhed in the embrace hoping beyond the hope to get away somehow, to crawl far away from the thing, but the creature had an iron grip and strength and he was carried away without any trouble like a little child.

* * *

 

John finished his reports for Dr Dewberry.

For the woman with heart problems he recommended to continue her care, although he knew that it would not happen. He just didn't want to sign a death sentence for her.

And then Sherly…no, Sherlock.

This was not the first time that he felt a temptation to change the results to slow the process and help his patient to gain some extra weight and strength to better withstand an operation which was not in his hands to prevent. He couldn't lie about his patient´s condition, because Dr Dewberry was a doctor himself and able to see through plain lies, but after all, Sherlock´s condition didn't need much extra exaggeration to convince any doctor that an operation would be risky. But when had Dr Dewberryl cared about endangering his slave patient's well being? Only owners’ anger about breaking their favourite toys made him act more carefully. 

So he completed his report and sent it to Dr Dewberry, hoping that it would be enough to delay the operation.

It would be only a temporary solution, but he had become tired of sending his patients under the knife, going through useless and even dangerous operations against their will. He had seen enough abuse, misuse, confusion, pain and fear in their eyes, when he was unable to help them or ease their lives. He felt himself more a slaughterer`s assistant than a real doctor healing people. He had saved more lives in his army days than now in his civilian life, trying to protect his patients from their owner´s arbitrariness. He was tired of witnessing the needless cruelty every day.

Although he had worked there for only a month, he felt that he could not stand this much longer. Things had to change or he would lost the rest of his self-respect.

He probably needed other work.

It was not that all owners were pure sadists. Most of them treated their slaves quite reasonably, giving them what they needed to live, although nothing extra, and without giving a second thought at whole issue. But he saw the worst examples here. He couldn't forget what he had seen here as he couldn't forget the violence and suffering that he had witnessed on the battlefield: A young girl, hardly sixteen, who was forcibly sterilized, so that her owner could use her without the fear of unwanted pregnancy. A young pregnant woman forced to have an abortion by her owner, who was surely the father. The poor woman, almost a girl, had wanted to keep her child and wept inconsolably. A male slave who had been beaten within an inch of his life because of some minor mistake. He was brought to the hospital, where he died some days later despite John´s attempts to save his life. And so on.

Now this. He should sign his report, give his permission for a mutilation and send it. Then he was supposed to forget it and move on. Go after work to pint with his mates, socializing, pick up Chinese or Thai takeaway, and go home. Start all over the next day. Maybe get a girlfriend. This was not for why he had educated himself as a doctor. It was not enough, not for him.

John Watson read the list of his latest patient´s injures again; signs of maltreatment, the descriptions of which had become too familiar to him. He didn't know for sure why he bothered to catalogue them all so conscientiously, he was a man with precision when it came to his profession. He knew that many his other doctors didn't bother.

“Cigarette burns on his stomach and chest, oldest of them were several months old, newest done maybe a week ago under his armpits.” It must hurt like hell, John thought.

“Wounds on his foot soles, scarred. “Jim” carved on the ball of foot by a sharp object like a scalpel.”

“Superficial and also deeper cuts all over the body, especially on inside of his thighs. On back it seems like someone has dug symbols into his flesh with a knife.”

It was such a waste of people. On the battlefield, where he had fought side by side with his mates, he had witnessed so many unnecessary deaths of young men whose lives had not yet properly begun and who would have had so much to give, so much life in front of them, if they only have survived the war. These young men didn´t. But he returned home, a wound on his shoulder and another in his soul. It was just like the arrogant slave had told him. 

He didn`t know, if it was worth of coming back. He needed a job, but it was difficult to find one these days. After six months he had accidentally met his old friend from his student days, Mike Stamford, who had become a teacher in the Bart´s Hospital´s student section. They had gone to a cheap corner place. While drinking their bitter coffee and after changing some pleasantries, which was not a pleasure for John, Mike told him that they were looking for a new doctor to the slave section. John Watson would be just the right one for the job.

That was how he started his work in Bart´s Slave Hospital.

John knew that Sherlock was right: working with slaves was not the most respected or wanted job among doctors. Usually doctors who couldn't get other kind of work for a reason or another ended up working with slaves. This explained the poor quality of the medical care that slaves got. The doctors mostly hated their work and despised their patients. The slaves knew that and were reluctant to go to a doctor.

But John Watson was not like them. He wanted to do some real good for his patients. It was like trying to swim up the Niagara Falls.

This young slave was right. He was with supporting the unfair system instead of helping his patients. The process was a meat mill, which chewed the victims, broke them with finality and killed too many of them in the process. Sherlock was a proof of another wasted life. John Watson felt himself unarmed against it. The operation was just another cruel act of subordination. There was no reason to do it.

There was only one trick he could try to buy some time for his patient. The results of blood tests need some time to be completed. If he were lucky, there could be a reason found to make the process stop. An infection could delay the operation. It could be better. This is a travesty of healthcare: that a doctor wish his patient have an infection to prevent more harmful surgeon, which would be useless. In what kind of society have we made? So: “We have to wait for the results from the laboratory before the operation can carry on. Meanwhile the patient can wait in the hospital; with proper food and vitamins he could be more prepared for to stand the stress of the operation, his condition checked regularly by his doctor.”

There was so little he could do for his patients.

The message was sent.

It was almost midday, so lunch time. John left his room, but he thought that he could first go to check his newest patient. His welfare was his responsibility, after all. He wanted to make sure that he was taken care of, getting his meal as John had ordered and being as comfortable as it was possible, when he was stopped by a familiar voice. He turned to face Mike, who was asking his company for lunch.

_Company would be nice. I can go and see him afterwards,_ John thought, letting Mike to lead him towards a canteen. 

 

* * *

 

Afterwards didn`t ever come. Instead of seeing his patient John found himself in Dr Dewberry`s office. He had just finished his dinner and going out from the cantina, when he got a call from Dr Dewberry to come immediately to his office. John knew that his reports were the reason he was called there.

“John, John, John. What should I do with you?” Dr Dewberry´s voice was soft, worried, his best doctor tone. 

“You are a damn good doctor, and your army background has given you an experience, which I appreciate and which is needed here. But you are too soft. You should be careful and follow the instructions of the hospital. It would ease your work considerably. There is no need to think so much. If you are unsure, follow the instructions.”

Dr Dewberry talked with a man John didn't recognise. He was almost as short as himself, his suit looked more expensive than his monthly wage and his dark hair was combed against his skull. But his completely expressionless face terrified John most. He talked with Dr Dewberry like they were old friends, but the talk muted when John Watson stepped in.

“Here you are, Dr Watson. May I introduce you to Mr Moriarty, Sherly´s owner. The slave whom you just checked.”

“I haven´t forgotten, sir. And, it´s a pleasure, Mr Moriarty.”

John Watson gave his hand, but Mr Moriarty didn't make a move to shake it. After a while John let his hand drop.

“I will get straight to the point, Dr Watson. Mr Moriarty is a busy man and has been very generous to our hospital in the past when we had financial difficulties. We all have reason to be grateful to him. He has personal reasons to support our work: many of his personal slaves have been taken care of here. You don't know him because you are new here. “

“Mr Moriarty is worried about the schedule of Sherly´s operation. He wants it to be over as soon as possible and to be able to take his favourite pet back home. He misses him greatly. You surely understand it, Dr Watson?” The main surgeon’s voice sounded demanding and assuring at the same time.

“Is this about the laboratory tests?” John guessed innocently.

“Exactly! Good, Dr Watson. These blood tests are completely irrelevant and unnecessarily delay the operation. We don't have to wait on them. Mr Moriarty,” Dr Dewberryl turned to his guest, “I am sure, that there is no need to change the schedule of the operation. “

“May I disagree, sir? The operation is always risky for the patient, and considering the patient´s condition it would cause a danger. It would be good to check all factors beforehand. We don't want to lose a patient, especially if he means so much to Mr Moriarty.”

Dr Dewberry looked unhappy. He went closer to Dr Watson towering him. 

“Dr Watson. Don´t let me down, not now. I am capable of doing my job without causing any permanent damage. There is no fatal risk. Infections are treatable by medication, as you know well. We are here to make them to better fit their owners´ needs. They usually recover faster than the free. They are not like us. Consider them more like machines who need repairs. I thought that you had already learnt that. “

He turned to Mr Moriarty: “I am so sorry, he is new here. He needs just time.”

“Not at all, dear friend. No need to apologize for him. He can do it himself.”

“Now, Dr Watson,” Dr Dewberry turned to John, his black gaze hard on him. “The process should start as soon as possible.”

“Dr Watson, if I forget blood tests, I assume, that the patient ready for the operation?” Moriarty said.

“No, he is not ready. He is not strong enough. He needs rest, proper nutrition, vitamins and sunlight.” John held his irritation so as not to let it be heard in his voice.

“John, I hope that you are capable of doing your duty properly, so that I am not obliged to deliver your tasks to another doctor?”

John gritted his teeth. He looked at Moriarty, a small man who radiated the air of threat and at his superior, who could get him sacked without second thought at this second, if he thought it necessary. These men did what they pleased and they didn't need to explain themselves to anybody. He now realised, how futile his attempt was to change their minds, or even slow them . He was just one man.

“All right. Sir, you don't need my signature to do what you see is the best.“ They wouldn't get his approval.

“I warn you, Dr Watson. You are going on a dangerous path now.”

“I can sleep well on it, Sir.”

Doctor Watson turned and left the room.

When he had closed the door, Mr Moriarty said, surprised, like he had meet a rare specimen or something incredible irresponsible and stupid:

“He cares them. I assumed, that your personnel are free from such disadvantages.”

“The personnel of this hospital are very professional and have a strong sense of duty. They cannot care too little. This work is impossible to do successfully, if you start to worry about every patient you meet.He is new here, but he is a promising doctor. He will learn.” Dr Goodwill promised as much to himself as to Mr Moriarty.

* * *

 

John shift was ending, but he wanted to see his patient one more time before he left home. Despite of his best intentions, he hadn´t had time before that. But when he got to the door, the familiar guards were blocking his way again, and this time he couldn't convince them to let him in. He couldn't hear any sound from the room, and the slave, who had escorted Sherlock, told him: “He is fine. I think, he is sleeping. He should not be disturbed.”

John didn't like it at all, but he couldn't do much more with it. It was the end of his shift, so it was time to go home, to his sparse furnished rent flat, which felt hardly like a home.

 

 

Inside the room last tendrils of his hallucinations lingered in Sherlock´s mind, although the worst was behind. He was sweaty and shaky, and he wanted to roll himself into a ball so as to comfort himself, but he couldn´t. Instead he lay still on his bed; the sheet was scrunched under him from his struggling against his hallucinations. His food tray had been left untouched on a little corner table, far away from his bed, forgotten. It was meant to be his dinner, but he never got it.

 _Not a great loss,_ he thought himself.

 

Some hours later Sherlock lay on his back as before, both wrists and ankles restrained to metal bars of his hospital bed as usual. So nothing new about that. This was the only position he was now able to take, but sleeping would be harder. Instead he listened to every sound he could catch outside his room.

He counted seconds, a technique he used sometimes to keep his mind busy, trying to keep unwanted thoughts away and to prevent him from panicking during endless time of being tied down, unable to move much. Sleeping was out of question, although pills he had received made him foggy and unfocused. He didn't want to fall asleep and let them get him unguarded. He didn't want this to be too easy for them, although he could probably not do anything to even slow them down. So he counted how seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours.

He had counted to 1060, then the door opened and the slice of light revealed that someone was coming in. He turned his head to see the newcomer. There they were. He had already anticipated them, wondering what took so long. The anesthesiologist in his green coat, two female nurses, Chameleon and a male nurse. He kept his eyes tightly squeezed.

“Is he sleeping?” He heard the doctor asking.

“If not yet, he will be soon. The dose we gives to him would sedate a horse.”

“He is a cunning little thing, a highly tolerant for drugs.” He heard Chameleon say. “Be careful.”

“We can handle him.”

They were going to put him asleep and take him into the surgery. Doctor Watson told him he would do all he could to stop them. It surely hadn`t been enough. Doctor Watson might be brave, but he was only one man and they were many. He didn't want this to come.

“No!” He screamed, tugging his bindings, trying desperately to cut them despite knowing his attempts futile, when he saw the anesthesia mask in a nurse´s hand coming nearer his face.

“Be still!”

“I don't want… listen… Where is John Watson! He promised…” A hand took hold of his hair and the mask landed on his face, the disgusting rubber covered his nostrils and mouth, muting his words; he tried not to inhale the toxic gas until black spots emerged in his vision. He couldn't hold his breath any longer and inhaled the gas. His effort to fight ceased very soon, when his senses and brain activity became foggy. The last thing he saw before darkness was Chameleon´s face above him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snowhite Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658201) by [Ianto_NotJustTheTeaBoy_Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ianto_NotJustTheTeaBoy_Jones/pseuds/Ianto_NotJustTheTeaBoy_Jones)




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